


Hogwarts!

by Agaryulnaer, sarisa



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Genderbending, M/M, Original Character(s), ariadne (inception) - Freeform, cobb (inception) - Freeform, lady!eames, mal (inception) - Freeform, metamorphagus, warning for teenage angst, yusuf (inception) - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 16:11:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 49,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agaryulnaer/pseuds/Agaryulnaer, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarisa/pseuds/sarisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames is a metamorphagus. Arthur is full of angsty anger. And clearly, no one who could come up with the Marauder's Map could ever have been in Gryffindor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hogwarts!

**Author's Note:**

> We sincerely apologize to all British people for any misuse of Britishisms, slang, et cetera. We probably misused a lot. We're very, very sorry. 
> 
> Also, sarisa is having problems with formatting paragraph spacing. Hopefully this will be fixed.  
> (eta: fixed, woo!)

  


The woman who appears on the stoop of Arthur's foster home is wearing a long dress, just like the pasty guy the day before, but this is at least, you know, a woman, who's supposed to be wearing a dress. Arthur had been really weirded out by the Dracula guy in the long black bathrobe thing. He'd been sort of cool in a really freaky scary way, but he's less frightened by the lady in the green velvet nightdress. Thing. She's also got an old-fashioned hat on, which is impressive, and despite the weird clothes, she looks rich, and he doesn't think she's going to bite him and suck his blood.

She introduces herself as Professor McGonagall of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and she takes him and his backpack of stuff into a cab, which takes them all the way to Kensington. He'll be taking his train to school the next day, she'd said, and they had to buy all of his stuff before that, so they had to hurry.

She takes him into a pub. This is, needless to say, a first experience for him, a foster kid, never important enough to be taken out to dinner or brought along to stuff like that. Nobody he's lived with had the money to take four or five foster kids out to eat, so this is a new thing. To his disappointment, though, they don't stop to eat or drink anything; she takes him out to the back alley, and if they hadn't just walked through a room with a bunch of people dressed like they're in Oliver Twist, he'd think she's screwing with him.

But she takes out her own stick, longer than Dracula's had been, and taps a bunch of bricks. And then he nearly shits himself, because the bricks open up, all on their own, forming a doorway leading into... a freaking hidden _street_.

Arthur decides, two minutes later, that he might never be able to actually _see_ everything all at once, but Diagon Alley is _AWESOME._

Professor McGonagall explains to him, as they pass a shop filled with animals, that owls are actually used to deliver mail in the Wizarding World, and he can't get one today on the school's budget, but that the school has plenty of owls he can use, at Hogwarts. And then, first things first, they stop at Ollivander's, who makes the sticks, or rather wands, as he learns very quickly.

He breaks the front window of the shop with the second one he tries, and sets one of the shelves on fire with the sixth, but those catastrophes are _magically_ fixed before he even has time to worry about being thrown in jail for vandalism.

The eleventh wand he tries, though, that one's special. It's warm in his hand, and shoots up a small fountain of golden sparks. He grins, waving it about until Professor McGonagall tells him to ease off with it, and trots along behind her on the way to the bookstore. If he were a girl he'd definitely be skipping. He's so distracted that he nearly runs into her from behind when she stops suddenly, calling to someone.

He doesn't hear the name, but a tall man in a long red dress stops and greets her, a pretty lady in a blue nightgown like McGonagall's smiling next to him. The man is wearing a waistcoat underneath his dress, and tuxedo pants, and he's got a big gold collar thing. Arthur decides he's probably important. He steps back, more behind McGonagall than next to her, as in his experience important people never mean good things.

"And who is this?"

"Ah, this is Arthur Kaufman. He'll be starting Hogwarts this term."

"Ah, pleasure to meet you, young chap! My youngest will be going off, as well!" He points to a shop where a load of boys of all sizes are crowded around a window. "The lot of them, all looking at the new Cleansweep. Vincent!"

"Arthur, this is Mr. Eames, one of Hogwarts' trustees," Professor McGonagall informs him, and he shakes the man's hand, trying not to look wary.

"Pleased to meet you, sir," he says when McGonagall nudges him gently.

Mr. Eames sends him a smile that is clearly an attempt to reassure him but isn’t particularly; the quiet, nervous sort of smile he gets from the woman next to her is much more sincere, but she doesn’t say anything. At least not before one of the boys breaks away from the crowd around the shop window, hurrying over and nearly knocking her over when he almost fails to stop. He’s about Arthur’s age, which makes sense, considering what Mr. Eames- obviously his father- had said about him starting this year as well. He’s a bit small, for eleven, but he’s dressed much like his father and is clutching a wand of his own.

He eyes Arthur around his mother and Professor McGonagall with blatant curiosity. And with bright blue eyes. Very bright. An absolutely mad color, actually, that resembles neon lights more than anything that ought to be appearing in someone’s irises. At least, that’s until his father grabs him by the back of the robe (not that Arthur knows that’s what they’re called) and yanks him forward by it.

“Vincent, you’ve met Professor McGonagall,” he says with forced patience, hand gripped in his son’s robes even though it is obviously uncomfortable for the little boy, who bears it as though this is a common sort of occurrence. “Hopefully you’ll be in her House by tomorrow. Boy, stop that.”

Vincent doesn’t look particularly encouraged by this bit about the House, but he blinks obediently and his eyes are suddenly a more subdued blue-green color before he nods to her and mumbles something that sounds like “lovely to see you.” His father sends him a look, but ever polite, adds, “And this is Arthur, he’s off to Hogwarts tomorrow as well.”

“Perhaps you’ll make friends,” his mother adds in a quiet, hopeful voice.

There’s a pause; obviously here the boys are supposed to greet one another, or attempt something approximating polite conversation. More staring goes on, with Vincent seeming to be fidgeting a bit even with his father’s hand still gripping him. It almost looks like the tips of his hair might be turning that same blue color his eyes had been a moment before, in an almost restless sort of fashion. All the while he eyes Arthur, who looks like a fish out of water if ever there was one. “Merlin, mate, you look like you’ve been thwacked upside the head and dropped in the middle of the French camp at the Quidditch World Cup.” Not that he’s ever been there or anything.

Arthur stares at him, not sure what to make of that at all. He doesn't want to look stupid, though, and no one else seems to think the word quidditch, or whatever it was, sounded strange at all, so he doesn't ask about it. Nor does he ask about the Cleansweep, whatever that is. He wants to, but he wants to keep from looking stupid a lot more than he wants to know about it.

So, in an effort to save face, he observes soberly, "At least I'm not wearing a dress."

There is a pause, during which the other boy blinks at Arthur and his parents stare in various states of insulted; actually, his father looks as though he's uncertain if he should be affronted, and his mother looks vaguely startled. Professor McGonagall actually sputters a bit, and is obviously about to explain that they are not wearing _dresses_ (and fighting a smile) when the other little boy laughs.

"No," he agrees after a moment. His hair returns to a more normal shade of light brown, the blue fading entirely as he laughs a bit. "You definitely aren't." In fact, this Arthur seems to Vincent to be wearing very odd clothing, himself. He'd be fascinated at any other time, but right now there are a lot of very interesting things going on. It is Diagon Alley, after all. "Neither am I, mate, they're robes." He manages to wave this off as though he is both above being insulted and as though Arthur hadn't meant it as an insult at all, he simply lacked understanding. "You must be a muggleborn. Do muggles really use rocks to send the post? Have you got a wand yet? Did you break anything trying them out? That's the best part-"

Mr. Eames yanks on his son's robes again at this. "Vincent, stop interrogating the boy." This silences his son, whose cheery curiosity turns to well-trained, just this side of frightened silence as quickly as his eyes had changed color. Mr. Eames gives Professor McGonagall an apologetic, if slightly forced, smile. "I do apologize, Professor. He's been like this all week."

"He's very excited," his wife chimes in weakly.

Arthur looks up at McGonagall, and then at the aforementioned Mr. Eames, wondering if he's allowed to speak but just as much really not wanting to get on the large man's bad side if he's not supposed to respond. After all, the bloke's son had shut it when the old man had told him to. He's just not sure. And it's not that he's _frightened_ of the bloke, of course. It's just that he's learned, over the years, to recognize when he meets someone, usually a man but not always, who he'd do best not to rile. Survival instinct, but he's not old enough to recognize it.

Still, McGonagall steps to the side, not letting him hide behind her nightgown (or robes, apparently, which he guesses makes sense because they're wizards, and she's a witch), and he takes that to mean that he's supposed to respond. He holds up his wand, obviously having gotten it, and adds, "I broke the store window and set some of the shelves on fire."

He pauses, and looks confused. "There aren't any rocks used for the mail." He's not sure at all where that could have come from. "But owls are probly much faster than postboxes and postmen." His expression is quite serious* as he looks over at the other boy, who's a few inches shorter than he; Arthur's rather tall and skinny for his age, despite his chubby cheeks. And he's wearing normal clothes, jeans and a tee shirt and a hoodie. He's not sure at all about this robe business. Maybe it's normal for wizards to dress like girls, old-fashioned girls at that, but he doesn't want to wear a skirt.

The other boy looks rather let down to hear that rocks are not, in fact, used in the post, but accepts it at face value. After all, Arthur is a muggleborn, he ought to know. He certainly _looks_ like he'd know. Which means that Alex was making that up, or whoever told him was making it up, but it was probably him, because he's a brother, and that's what brothers do. Especially big brothers, since Alex rarely believes anything Vincent says as he has no sources, not having been to Hogwarts yet and therefore knowing only purebloods and halfbloods who might as well be purebloods.

"Oh," he says shortly, having run out of steam since his father told him to shut it. But he does perk up a bit upon seeing the wand. It's still pretty wicked, since he's still fairly thrilled that he'd gotten his, even though they did that a week ago, and not in Diagon Alley because Ollivander won't work with Veela hair cores. He says it's too temperamental, which (as Alex had discovered upon waving Vincent's wand about; the cat hasn't come out from the wall for three days)... is definitely true.

"Wandmakers must have very good insurance," he finally determines, with all the sage-like wisdom that an eleven year old can muster.

His father snorts, but the sound isn't amused, really, not in any pleasant sort of way at least. He eyes his son (whose hair is starting to go yellow at the roots as he gets more and more restless, being held there by his robes), and then promptly ignores him in favor of Professor McGonagall. "We ought to be going. I'm sure you have a great deal left to do, readying for the school year tomorrow," he says with a smile that looks somewhere between tired and forced. "Goodness knows my boys will have forgotten at least ten things each. Say goodbye, Vincent."

There is a pause that seems just a _little_ too thoughtful, and then Vincent seems to lose the battle with his good sense, because he looks at Arthur and McGonagall and quite soberly says, "Goodbye, Vincent." ...and is promptly grabbed at the wrist by his nervous-looking mother, who drags him off in the opposite direction before his father can do more than scowl menacingly in the direction of his vaguely red-tinted hair.

Arthur looks up at McGonagall as they take their leave, his brow wrinkled. "Why did his hair change color? And his eyes?"

The Professor sighs, shaking her head and putting a hand on his shoulder. "I'll explain as we finish our shopping," she tells him, leading him in the direction of a shop named Madam Malkins', where he's made to stand on a stool while a woman with pins in her mouth measures him... without touching the tape measure, which moves on its own.

The next morning, after a night in the inn called the Leaky Cauldron, the innkeeper Tom, who'd fed him dinner and checked on him during the night, hands him over to Dracula's care once again; he follows the other Professor through the streets of London to King's Cross station, dragging his heavy trunk along as he goes. He's been used to being handed from adult to adult since he was a baby, and this is fairly normal for him, a change in who he's meant to follow about.

He's deposited on Platform 9 with little ceremony, pointed towards the barrier between it and Platform 10, and told to walk through the wall. When he turns around to ask whether Dracula actually expected him to walk face first into a brick wall for his own amusement, the tall man in the black robes is gone, and Arthur huffs a bit... before turning to stare at the wall again, his uncertainty at all of this beginning to show on his face for the first time.

What if he'd made up everything the day before? What if his trunk is actually empty, not full of all sorts of magical things and books and clothes? What if he's hallucinating all of this, and he's about to be jumped on by the men in the white coats, and put in a straightjacket and taken away in a van? At least if that's true, he reasons, he'd probably be allowed to stay with his mum. Maybe.

He takes a look around, but no one's looking at him. All right, well. Might as well try. What can he lose?

He screws up his face and his courage, setting his shoulders like he's about to make a rugby play and charging at the wall, feeling like he should be letting loose with a battle cry. He doesn't, thankfully for the Statute of Secrecy he knows nothing about, and he closes his eyes just as he's about to plow right into the wall... but he doesn't hit anything at all, and when he opens his eyes, he comes right out of the brick wall and gapes.

In front of him is a huge, old-fashioned red train engine, its whistle blowing, and the platform, named 9 3/4 by the swinging sign overhead, is bustling with people in robes of all sorts, or very strange muggle clothes. There's a man in a bathing cap and an old-fashioned striped bathing suit with galoshes; Arthur stares at him for a moment before he's hustled closer to the train by the crowd. He has his backpack with his wand and two of his textbooks, and the robes he's meant to put on before they arrive at Hogwarts, and he hands over his trunk to the hassled-looking man in a conductor's cap in the front of the train.

The whistle blows again, and he hurries aboard, squeezing between people and then hurrying nearly the length of the train to find an empty compartment, breathing hard once he finds one. He'd barely been spared a glance in his hurry, and he's glad for it, dropping onto the comfortable seat and huffing, trying to catch his breath.

Well. That was... terrifying, he thinks, looking out the window and seeing a round-looking woman with red hair on the platform outside, waving a handkerchief and carrying an equally red-haired child on one hip, a passel of them surrounding her. He wishes, for a moment, that she was waving at him; he can't help himself, and lifts a hand, waving a little and feeling stupid about it. She spots him, though, and smiles broadly, waving right back, and he smiles a bit in return, flushing. But then the train is pulling out of the station, turning 'round the bend and leaving King's Cross behind, and even though he pokes his head half-out of the window, he loses sight of the red-haired woman.

Pulling his head back inside, he plops back down, feeling stupid once again. But the feeling doesn't last long. He's a wizard, and he's on a train to go to wizarding school, to learn to do _magic._

Really, he thinks he wins. For once, he really wins.

He has a few minutes to himself before the compartment door opens abruptly and a pair of orange-colored eyes appears, followed shortly by the rest of Vincent Eames, who is already dressed in school robes similar to the ones Arthur had bought the day before. He eyes the nearly-empty compartment, obviously looking for someone, and just as obviously not finding him.

“You’re not Yusuf,” he says, which is rather obvious to both of them, but he says it anyway. Then he pauses, eyes going back to normal. “You are Arthur, though, from Diagon Alley.”

That was, of course, only yesterday, but as he’s sure Arthur has as well, he’s had a bit of a day since then. They traipsed all around Diagon Alley for _hours_ , until even he was getting tired of it, and then went home and packed with his father shouting at him every two minutes and his brother being uncommonly helpful. His mother kept handing him money for “just in case” and he’d spent about two hours this morning trying to lure his owl out from the chimney in the front sitting room, where it had lodged its head in a crevice between two rocks. He would have left it there, except his father had said if he didn’t get it down, he wouldn’t be going off to school.

And so, no breakfast for him, but he’s on the train now and so is the ridiculous owl. His brother is, too, but Alexander had quickly rid himself of his little brother, probably because he’d spotted a pair of Weasleys hanging about with Alexander and promptly gone on about Weasleys color-coding their hair to match their House. Alexander had quickly shoved him out of the compartment, thus putting an end to his promise to “watch over” his little brother for their parents, and freeing the younger Eames to wander about freely. Which means one thing: candy.

And that is how he came to be looking for Yusuf, but instead finds Arthur. He slips into the compartment, mostly giving up on Yusuf for now. He’s probably found someone with a Potions book he hasn’t read or something else horrifically boring. Arthur is reading or something, which is also fairly boring, but at least he’s here. Eames roots through his pocket with his wand and pulls out some candy in short order. “Chocolate frog?”

Arthur eyes the little cardboard container, with the words _Chocolate Frog_ on the front in gold and blue. "Is it a real frog?"

The other boy, Vincent (Arthur wouldn't forget his name, not since he was the first person his own age Arthur had met who's a wizard), looks at him sort of funny, and so Arthur reaches over to take the candy, turning the package over once. Nothing looks suspicious, though, and so he looks up at Vincent. "Thanks."

He doesn't have candy often enough that this isn't a special treat, and he opens the box, reaching in to pull out the chocolate... which starts to wriggle in his hand. He yelps, yanking it out, only to find the frog, actually made of chocolate, struggling to get out of his hand the way a living amphibian would. "Bloody _hell_."

It’s about that moment that the other little boy realizes that, being a muggleborn, Arthur probably doesn’t realize that you have to be quick with chocolate frogs. Which, in retrospect, does explain why he was wondering if it was a real frog. Muggles must not _have_ chocolate frogs. Or something. Well, either way, that one is about to get away.

There’s a brief moment where he wonders if maybe he should try a spell, but then decides that he’d probably accidentally hit Arthur, or explode the frog all over everything, so in the end he just closes the compartment door quickly, sealing off the frog’s only exit (thankfully, the window is closed).

“It stops squirming when you get a bite of it,” he says. “Or if you save it for too long, sometimes the spell wears off. You’d best be quick, it’s gonna hop off.”

Horrified, Arthur looks down at the frog, which is ribbeting silently and struggling in his hand. And then he looks back up at Vincent. "But... it's alive. I can't just bite off its head." But that appears to be what he's supposed to do. He could break off a leg, he guesses, but that would be much more cruel.

Trying not to wince, he gets two fingers on the frog's neck part, breaking off its head in a mercy killing. It immediately stops moving, turning into plain old chocolate, and he feels his face grow hot, feeling like an idiot again. "What are you looking at?" he snaps, seeing Vincent's grin. Still flushing, he looks away, humiliated at someone seeing him acting like a girl over a stupid candy frog.

The other boy sobers quickly, hiding the smile as he sits down on the bench opposite Arthur. He’s pulled another frog out of his- obviously rather large- pocket, and is eyeing it as though trying to determine how much of a challenge it will present. Arthur’s lucky, really, sometimes they’re impossible to catch.

“It wasn’t really alive,” he points out after a moment, totally disregarding Arthur snapping at him. “Just spelled. S’pose muggles don’t spell chocolate, then, being muggles.” That does make an awful lot of sense. “I have Every Flavor Beans too, but those’r dangerous. I have better luck than my brother, but it only takes one paint-flavored one to put you off them.” Here he pulls out a little bag of jelly beans and eyes them suspiciously before offering the bag over to Arthur. He’s going to go with the frog.

Of course, as soon as he opens it, the stupid thing makes a beeline for the window and sticks there, climbing much higher than he can reach. “Hey!” And that would be how he ends up standing on the seat, poking at the chocolate frog with his wand since he can’t reach it with his hand. “Get back here!”

"Oh hey, I know that one, I just read it!" Arthur yanks the _Standard Book of Spells, Volume One_ to him and opens it to Chapter Twelve. "Summoning Charm!" He pauses, pulls out his own wand, and takes a moment to trace the black runes etched into the light brown surface. It's a neat-looking thing, all light brown at the top with designs that look like they're almost burnt into the wood, but it darkens to black at the front part.

Arthur is just a little in love with it, and since the _Lumos_ spell, and the _Nox_ counter-spell, had worked perfectly well the night before at the Leaky Cauldron, he feels reasonably sure he can manage a spell from... eleven chapters later in the book. After all, how hard could it possibly be?

" _Accio frog!_ " he intones firmly, pronouncing it _Ass-ee-o._

The frog bursts into flames.

"SHIT! Uhhh, _Accio frog!_ " This time, at least, the frog flies towards him, as he pronounces it correctly. Unfortunately it is still on fire, and lands on the floor of the compartment, promptly burning a hole in the carpet.

From his perch on the seat, the other boy lets out a yelp and hops back, climbing down quickly and staring down at the still-burning awful conglomeration of chocolate and carpet in mild horror. He has no idea how Arthur lit it on fire (is that even a real spell if you say it that way?), but he certainly managed, and they can’t go running off to get help, because then they’ll get in trouble and they haven’t even gotten off the _train_ yet.

Floundering a bit, he panics for a moment (they both do), before suddenly he recalls his brother accidentally lighting their cousin’s hair on fire the one time, and the spell that his mum had used after that—“ _Aguamenti_!”

Astoundingly, this works; of course, he’d been pointing his wand at the floor in general at the moment, and both of their feet and shins are promptly soaked, along with half of the carpet. This does, thankfully, put out the fire. Unfortunately, that’s about when he realizes that he hasn’t the faintest how to _stop_ his wand producing water. “Oh, hell.” And naturally, his first instinct is to wave his wand around a bit, hoping that might make it stop. Or something.

Luckily (or perhaps unluckily), his brother chooses this moment to open the door to their compartment, a boy of about their own age with curly black hair peering around him. Alex lifts his own wand and aims at Vincent's, eyes wide as he barks, " _Finite Incantatem!_ "

Vincent's wand stops shooting water, but not in time for him to have kept from entirely soaking both himself and Arthur. Alex spends a brief moment looking back and forth between them, but finally he sighs. "Well, at least you're making friends."

Dripping, both boys stare at Alexander and the boy behind him for a moment; the younger Eames (who seems unaware that his hair has gone a bit green) slowly puts his wand away in his (soaked) robe pocket before looking at his brother. “This actually isn’t what it looks like at all.”

The older boy blinks, glancing around the compartment. He bears a very strong resemblance to the younger Eames- green hair aside, of course- although he’s much taller, and rather a lot wider, they look so alike it’s almost eerie. The major difference between them- when the younger appears normal- is that where Vincent’s eyes are a lighter blue-green, Alexander’s are brown, and his hair is a bit lighter. “Really? It looks to me like two first years who thought they could do magic on the train even though they haven’t actually had any classes yet.”

There is a pause, and then the younger boy shrugs a bit, accepting that but not bothered by admitting it, because he’s got another tactic. “Okay, it’s pretty much what it looks like, then. But _you_ were supposed to be watching me, like a responsible older brother. You promised. I was there. Being ‘too rambunctious to take care of myself without proper supervision’. Hi Yusuf!”

The boy peering into the compartment from behind Alexander Eames grins and waves. “Hullo, Eames. Your hair’s got a bit of green.”

Arthur looks back and forth between them, and then up at the older Eames, whose name he hasn't caught, as Vincent's hair flares neon green. "I'm not associated with him." Okay, so maybe he is, but he rolls his eyes at the glare Vincent sends him. "You had your wand out first!"

"You set it on _fire_!"

"But I Summoned it!"

"After you set it on fire!"

" _Tergeo._ " A soapy-looking mist shoots from the older Eames' wand, silencing them both as it envelops the spot on the carpet, the window, and then both of their legs, followed quickly by several words that make their pants legs suddenly, amazingly, dry. He adds, " _Reparo,_ " and the carpet is suddenly free of holes or burn spots.

Arthur gapes. Vincent's brother smirks. "What _would_ you do without me, Vincent?"

His younger brother manages not to make a face; Alexander is the only one who calls him Vincent, really- he usually goes by "Eames"- at least, the only one who does that he doesn't mind. His parents do, too, of course. But there's no stopping them. They're the ones who named him in the first place. It's about the same for his brother, who goes by "Alexander" and not "Alex," except when the younger boy is whining at him. He gets away with the nickname, mostly because trying to stop him calling anyone by a nickname is like trying to reason with a Cornish pixie, only more painful.

"Well," he says slowly, every bit as haughty as his brother had been, "It's pretty obvious I'd get myself soaked and almost lit on fire."

Alexander rolls his eyes. "Don't be a little prat."

Still mostly behind him, Yusuf snorts, making his feelings on the younger Eames' ability to not be a prat fairly clear. He is mostly ignored, especially when a girl in robes similar to Alexander's, with the red and gold trim, walks past the compartment. "Brotherly duties fulfilled, I'm off. Stop trying spells you don't know, it's not allowed on the train anyway." He pauses, eyeing Arthur, and then briefly adds, "Very pleased to meet you, best of luck with the Sorting," before hurrying off after the nameless girl.

His younger brother rolls his eyes. "That's got to be that girl he's been going on about all summer. I'm surprised he hasn't started writing sonnets about her eyes or some rubbish."

"He might have," Yusuf suggests helpfully as he steps into the compartment.

"Nah. I checked his room."

Looking somewhat disappointed, Yusuf turns to Arthur, holding out a hand to shake. "Yusuf Zaman."

Arthur shakes automatically. "Arthur Kaufman."

"Pleased to meet you." Yusuf turns back to Vincent, and Arthur looks after Vincent's brother.

"What did he mean, the Sorting?"

Raising his brows, Yusuf looks Arthur over. Muggle clothes, right. He's a muggleborn, he wouldn't know. "There's the four Houses, at Hogwarts, named after the four founders. Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, Slytherin, and Gryffindor. They stick the Sorting Hat on your head in front of the whole school- it was Godric Gryffindor's hat, spelled to be... special, or something- and it decides which House you're in."

Arthur blinks, wondering if they're pulling something over on him. "A _hat?_ "

"Yeah." This is apparently entirely normal. Yusuf looks at both of them. "Want to play Gobstones? We'll teach you, Arthur."

"Yeah, come on," the other boy- Eames- agrees. His hair is returning to its normal color, albeit slowly. He hadn't managed to actually _eat_ the chocolate frog, but that doesn't mean he hadn't had any sugar, and sitting still is not going to happen. He's far too excited, and talk of the Sorting Hat only has him more excited. And nervous. Really, really nervous.

Yusuf produces the game, and begins explaining; Eames hasn't got the patience for that sort of thing, and mostly just sits there, tapping his foot and eyeing the students who pass the compartment. "Yusuf's gonna be in Ravenclaw. No doubt about it."

"You don't know that," Yusuf points out, then grins a little lopsidedly. "Not that I'd mind."

"Ravenclaw's for smart people," Eames adds for Arthur's benefit. "Or smart arses, in Yusuf's case."

"Oh, hah."

"You'll probly be last, though," Eames adds. "I doubt there's anyone past Zaman. Enjoy waiting that whole time, mate."

"How do you know he'll be in Ravenclaw?" Arthur asks, setting his pieces up the way Yusuf has.

"Because I'm smart," Yusuf returns with a grin. Vincent snorts, and Arthur lifts his brows. The taller boy shrugs. "The smart people go in Ravenclaw. The brave ones go in Gryffindor, the sneaky ones go in Slytherin- scuze me, the _cunning_ ones- and the loyal ones go in Hufflepuff."

This seems a bit ridiculous. "And a _hat_ decides all of that?" Arthur says skeptically, but Yusuf is nodding.

"Yeah. But sometimes what one you want to be in makes a difference, if it's trying to decide between two. That's what my dad says, anyway. I'll be last, so everyone will go before me." He shrugs again. "Oh, well. I'm used to it. Are you playing, Eames?" He's already set up the other boy's pieces, and brown-haired again, Vincent sits down between them.

Arthur eyes him, as well. "Eames sounds better than Vincent."

"No one calls me Vincent," the other little boy explains, agreeing wholeheartedly with that sentiment. He doesn't really like his name at all, and that's not aided by the fact that his father shouts it all the time when he's in trouble. That, and it just sounds like some old person's name, or something. Just "Eames" is much more fitting. "Well, aside from my parents. And brother. Everyone else calls me Eames."

"Which makes no sense," Yusuf adds, "as the rest of you family is Eames as well."

"Shut it," Eames says, rather cheerfully. "You should concentrate on your impending Gobstone-y doom, mate. What flavor do you suppose this one is?" He is somehow suddenly inspecting a bright green-colored Every Flavor Bean, the bag of which seems to have appeared out of nowhere.

"Lime?" Arthur suggests. "Or... boogie." The other boys turn disgusted looks on him, and he shrugs. "You said they come in every flavor! It could be battery acid."

Blank expressions are all the response he gets to this, and he sighs. "Batteries. People- er, muggles, I suppose- use them to power their machines and things." Still nothing. "They store electricity. It makes muggle things work, since we don't have magic. We have to generate energy. Learned about it in school."

He points to the Gobstones. "I have a feeling you'll both probably wallop me, but you never know. I want to see the stones shoot acid at each other, go on."

And so, they play.

They take breaks to buy snacks from the trolley-lady, and the sky darkens outside the compartment window; once it's fully dark, they change into their robes. Arthur, who has never been out of London before, stares out the window at the dark, craggy highlands of what he assumes is Scotland. "Are we nearly there, do you think?" he asks, staring at the two strands of his tie, hanging about his neck, and wondering what exactly he's supposed to do with them.

"We must be," Eames says, "it's getting dark, and I haven't seen any houses or anything in ages."

"I think we're slowing down," Yusuf points out a moment later, prompting all three boys to sit still for a long, silent moment, trying to gauge the speed of the train. Not surprisingly, Eames is the first to start moving again, re-doing the tie that he'd had on the whole time and eyeing his new school robes. They're kind of boring, lacking the House insignia and colors of the older students', at least until later in the night, after the first years have been Sorted.

Yusuf and Arthur look much the same, at least, except Yusuf's tie is lopsided, and Arthur hasn't quite got his sorted. He keeps staring at it. Eames wonders if perhaps Muggles don't wear ties. He'll have to learn, though, they have to wear them every day. That's all right, though, Eames knows how, and he is in dire need of a distraction. He can hardly sit still. His father and brother and everyone in their family since the dawn of time has been in Gryffindor- his mum aside, but Ravenclaw is acceptable because she isn't _from_ their family- what if he's not? What if he _is_? What if the hat just kicks him out because he isn't fit for any House at all? He's not brave, he's never been brave, he's not really very smart either, and there's no way he's particularly loyal, and if he got put in Slytherin, his father-

Right. Distraction. "D'you need some help?"

"Yeah, thanks," Arthur mumbles, making a face at the untied silk. Really, it's stupid, and he's never worn one before. But Eames twists it around, knotting it, and even though he was paying attention Arthur has no idea what he did. "Huh." He has the feeling it's not as easy as Eames had made it look. At all.

The train is slowing noticeably, now, and students are milling about in the corridor outside of their compartment; when they finally squeal to a stop, the whistle blowing, Arthur makes sure his wand is securely tucked in the pocket in his robes, following Eames and Yusuf out into the crowd of people on the platform, all of them wearing long black robes over sweaters and trousers or skirts, the hoods of the robes different colors. He'll be like them soon, he realizes, hurrying after Eames and Yusuf and skidding to a stop, nearly rear-ending Eames, as a giant with an enormous lantern and a huge black beard calls out, "First years, this way! First years!"

"Bloody hell," he manages. "Giants are real, too?"

There's a snicker from the boy behind him, and he shoots the boy a glare, putting as much menace as he can into it. "Shut up," he snaps. The boy just smirks at him. Arthur would hit him if the giant hadn't started leading them off just then, someone grabbing the back of his robes and pulling him along. He twists about to see Eames as the one tugging him, and he flushes, aware that he is going to keep feeling like an idiot probably for... well, forever, it seems like.

Eames hauls Arthur along behind him, leading the three of them through the throng of people as they all follow the giant (actually half-giant, according to his brother, and his name is… something with an H), a crowd of wide-eyed eleven-year-olds too nervous or excited to do much more than follow him and stare. Soon enough, though, they come to a dock… at a _huge_ lake. And on the other side…

“That’s the castle,” Eames whispers loudly, mostly to Arthur but to Yusuf as well, “It’s Hogwarts.”

And despite the fact that Eames has grown up knowing what Hogwarts looks like, knowing that he would go there… his first glimpse of the castle is _amazing._ It’s huge, and all lit up against the night sky, it looks more like something from a painting or a dream than a real place, where they’ll spend the next seven years learning to be proper wizards.

Of course, the crowd of first years all want a good look, so they’re pushed forward by the crowd and forced to stop staring, at which point Eames notices the boats and promptly makes a beeline for the nearest one, plowing two boys and a girl over in order to be the first there, despite the fact that he is shorter than all three of them (that girl is unnaturally tall). He drags Arthur in after him and yanks Yusuf in in much the same way even as the half-giant is instructing them to climb aboard. Eames is absolutely ready to get inside and be Sorted and be done with it. His patience is running perilously thin now that he’s coming down from the sugar high.

Arthur is silent as they set across the lake; he's squeezed in next to Eames in the little boat, with Yusuf behind them, and no one is rowing as they're magically propelled across the water. His eyes are enormous as he gapes up at the real, honest-to-God castle set next to the lake atop a tall hill.

"No one said it was in a castle," he says quietly, reverently. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Eames glance over, but he can't take his eyes from the towers silhouetted against the night sky.

Next to him, Eames glances over, then looks back up at the castle. He wonders, briefly, what it must be like for Arthur, who is so clearly unprepared for everything, on top of the already daunting experience of one’s first day at Hogwarts. He’d never given much thought to muggleborns, because he’d never _known_ any, and really the topic of one’s blood status is not discussed in society… publically, at least. Even though it’s always in the back of everyone’s mind.

Or, in some cases… well, the war’s over and Eames is eleven. He hasn’t really given any of it much thought at all, and he doesn’t bother now, instead grinning and looking up at the castle. His eyes darken and turn brown, and for a moment Eames pretends he’s seeing Hogwarts for the first time through Arthur’s eyes; it looks… exactly the same as when he’d looked at it with his own, and for some reason that makes Eames feel a bit better about the whole thing.

“We’re gonna live there,” he points out, a bit hushed himself. “For seven years.”

"Wow," Arthur replies, equally hushed.

The boats land, and they climb a long, curving set of stone steps, all the way up the hill to the main doors of the castle, their path lit by torches. Inside, it's just as grand as it had looked, outside, with an enormous stone entrance hall and great brass and iron fixtures on the doors, and enormous paintings on the wall. Paintings that move, just has had the magical photographs he'd seen in Diagon Alley and the Leaky Cauldron.

They stop at the top of another two flights of stairs, before a smaller (but still enormous) set of wooden doors. On the other side, they can hear a small roar of voices chattering and laughing, and waiting for them is a tall witch in an impressive black hat and green velvet robes. Arthur brightens a bit, still huge-eyed, as Professor McGonagall sends him a very slight smile.

"Welcome to Hogwarts."

It takes Professor McGonagall about three seconds to quiet the awestruck first years and get them into some semblance of order; Eames glances around, eyeing the rest of the new students, and forces his eyes to return to normal and stay that way. Somewhere between excited and terrified, he sends Yusuf a look, then glances back at Arthur. This is the part where they get Sorted. And he's going to be early on, because of his name. He's definitely going to pass out. Has that ever happened? What if he does before he can be Sorted? Will he not be Sorted? They might send him home...

He's working towards serious panic about the whole thing by the time McGonagall explains that they are to follow her, and the wooden doors open to reveal what Eames can only assume is the Great Hall. Which is, of course, filled with a _ton_ of people, all the older students at four long tables, staring at them, and at the front of the room all of the professors... also staring at them. Normally Eames quite enjoys attention. Right now he suddenly feels rather ill, so much so that he barely notices the roof... or rather, where the roof should be, and the stars in its place.

The Hall hushes quickly as the first years are all led to the front of the hall, where they stand, awkwardly, in front of the House tables and back from the Professors', all staring at McGonagall while she stands next to a stool with an old, actually rather dirty-looking hat on top of it. That, most of them surmise quickly, is the Sorting Hat. It's pretty easy to determine once it starts... reciting a poem. About the Houses. Eames supposes the hat must have a lot of free time to compose poetry, being a hat.

Five other students are Sorted before Eames, but he barely pays any attention to the two Ravenclaws, two Hufflepuffs and a Slytherin. Much like several of the other students, he's mostly concentrating on not passing out. It's good to note that the last boy- Ravenclaw- looks rather pale as he stumbles over towards the Ravenclaw table, where they're cheering for him. The cheering should be heartening. Mostly Eames feels sick. He's giving serious consideration to making an escape attempt when he hears "Vincent Eames," and realizes that McGonagall has just called him.

Well, it's now or never, he doesn't _actually_ want to scamper, and he's not going to pass out or be Houseless. That doesn't happen. Alex had reassured him at least forty times. He just has to sit on the chair and let her put the hat on his head. One foot in front of the other, right?

How he makes it to the stool and manages to sit on it, Eames will never know. Normally he would be annoyed that his feet don't touch the floor and wonder why they would have such a tall stool for a bunch of first years, but really he's just trying not to stare as McGonagall drops the hat onto his head. It falls down and mostly covers his eyes; Eames shoves it up with a huff, pretending he doesn't feel hundreds of pairs of eyes on him and that one of them isn't his brother. And of course all of his cousins, and Yusuf, and Arthur-

 _"Well, I can certainly tell you that you won't be Houseless,"_ comes a voice... in his head. Eames blinks and rolls his eyes up a bit, trying to see the hat, which he rightly assumes is speaking to him. It carries on. _"In fact, let me assure you that that has never happened in my tenure as Sorting Hat."_ Well, that's a relief, Eames supposes.

 _"Well, let's see then. Not Hufflepuff, certainly-"_ Well, no shock there. Loyalty isn't exactly his strong suit, and fairness has never been a concept he's quite believed in. _"Not Ravenclaw, either. Not much for studying, are you?"_ Not really. He's not smart enough for that House, anyway. _"Well, then, it's down to Gryffindor or Slytherin. You certainly fit the bill for Slytherin. Not terribly ambitious in the traditional sense, but you do want to prove yourself. And cunning, well, I see that in spades."_ Eames fidgets a little. It's true- he's been thinking about it. A lot. He's a sneaky bastard, as his brother has often said, and he takes particular pride in his little-brother trickery, since he doesn't know enough magic and isn't smart enough to beat his brother or parents in any other way. But... _"And you don't seem to think Gryffindor is quite right, do you?"_

Eames hesitates, wondering how the hat knows that. then again, it's talking to him in his mind, so... _My family's always in Gryffindor,_ he explains, figuring the hat can hear his thoughts. _My father will kill me if I'm not. He wants me to be like him and my brother._

 _"Hmm,"_ the hat replies, thoughtful. _"But you don't think so?"_

 _I dunno,_ Eames says shortly, his heart going too fast for comfort, feeling like he can feel his brother's eyes on him. Then, _I'm not brave._ He's never been brave. He knows he isn't, and he's not going to be. His father has never thought he was brave enough, and he's probably right, because if he _was_ brave, he would have argued with the man about it. Or... or something.

 _"Is that so?"_ the hat asks, and Eames doesn't realize that perhaps he's wrong, that he might be sabotaging himself by not believing in his own courage. He's been told so many times that he's lacking that he honestly believes it. _"Then I suppose you don't want to be in Gryffindor."_

Eames pauses. That question is surprising. _I don't know. No one ever asked me._ Then he pauses again, and before he can help it, adds, _I want to go where I fit in._ It's stupid for him to be in Gryffindor if he doesn't really belong there. He doesn't want to spend the next seven years in another place where he doesn't really belong, not when that's what he's going to be going home to, holidays. Hogwarts is supposed to be different. Eames wants to find his place, and that shouldn't have anything to do with his parents.

 _"There's nothing wrong with that,"_ the hat says, and for a moment, Eames imagines it's being reassuring, in a way no one has been about the Sorting thus far. _"It's for the best, anyway- the fit's near perfect. That settles it, then, it'll have to be-"_

"SLYTHERIN!"

The table to the first years' far left erupts in cheers (and a catcall) as McGonagall lifts the hat from Eames' head and he slides off the stool. He looks pale, but he's smiling as he nearly stumbles over to the clapping table, filled with students whose robes are trimmed in green. He more falls onto the bench than sits on it, and Arthur exchanges a nervous sort of smile with Yusuf. At least Eames is pleased.

There are six students after that, during which Arthur alternates between gaping up at the ceiling and staring at the students as they're Sorted, but then she calls his name, and he nearly jumps.

"Arthur Kaufman," she intones, and he swallows, squaring his shoulders and stepping forward, up the step and to the stool. Behind it are seated all of the teachers, the half-giant and Dracula amongst them, with the oldest man Arthur's ever seen right at the center, his white beard so long that it's tied off with a leather thong.

He turns, sitting on the little stool and realizing suddenly just how many people are staring at him right now. But frankly, the past few days have been full of so many new, weird (and awesome) things that he doesn't think anything can shock him anymore.

And then he hears the hat talking in his head.

" _My, my. Well, you're not nearly so difficult,_ " a wry little voice observes. He shoves the hat up so it's not over his eyes, which are now huge once again. It's talking. The hat is talking. He shouldn't be as shocked as he is by this, not after the magic wand and the book that tried to eat him in Flourish and Blotts, not to mention the moving photographs and the living chocolate, but really... he supposes he hasn't reached the end of his capacity for surprise at magical things.

 _I suppose... that's good for you, then?_ he tries, hesitantly. The hat actually chuckles.

" _Yes, thank you. Hm... Talent. Oh, yes talent indeed. And a stronger dose of bravery than is good for you..."_

Arthur nods, and then realizes that he's nodding to a hat, which is actually on his head. He flushes. _I want to find somewhere where I belong. I want to belong here._

It's the truth, he realizes. The hope that's carried him through the past few days, since Professor Dracula had shown up on his foster parents' doorstep. The thought that he might find a place where he could stay, a home, and friends he wouldn't have to leave behind after a few months, a year. A family.

_"Well, there's no doubt of that, young wizard. I have just the place for you."_

"GRYFFINDOR!"

The Gryffindor table bursts into tumultuous applause, shouting and encouraging Arthur as he hops off the stool and wanders over to the table. He looks happy- from the Slytherin table, Eames watches, trying his best not to look for his brother as he does. Arthur is brave, then, he supposes. And he looks pretty thrilled about it, from what Eames can tell. But maybe that's more to do with such a warm welcome. They're all getting pretty warm welcomes, today.

There is an unwarranted pang of jealousy, not surprisingly, that Eames quashes quickly. He might be in shock, but he already knows a bunch of the other Slytherin students- purebloods are often related to one another- and they've been nice to him, and he thinks that the hat was right. He belongs here, and... his father will just have to take it up with the Sorting hat. He won't be sorry for it. It's his first day at Hogwarts... nothing's going to bring him down.

Except, of course, as he watches Arthur, Eames can't help that he glances over... and promptly meets his brother's eyes. Naturally, he freezes, and they stare at one another for a moment... until Alex smiles at him, really smiles for a moment, waves a little, and nods in the direction of the rest of the first years, still being Sorted, meaning of course that Eames ought to go back to paying attention.

Relief hits Eames pretty hard, if he's honest with himself. He tells himself that he doesn't care what his father thinks, but Alex is a different story, and his brother has said time and time again that Slytherins are gits and he hates them all except for one or two, maybe... but he didn't seem to mind. Obviously his little brother will be an exception.

Heartened, Eames goes back to watching the Sorting, and by the time Yusuf is put in Ravenclaw, he's so relieved and pleased with the world in general that he doesn't even send the other boy an "I-told-you-so" smirk. Yusuf gets a thumbs up, and Eames thinks, before the Headmaster- Albus Dumbledore, the strongest (and oldest? he _looks_ old) wizard alive, who Eames and most wizard children he knows have been secretly hero-worshiping since they knew who he was- that maybe the hat really does know what it's doing.

The Headmaster gives a speech about magic being forbidden in the corridors and the Dark Forest being forbidden to students, and then to Arthur's shock, the golden plates in front of them are suddenly filled with food and drink. He tries pumpkin juice for the first time- very sweet, and an acquired taste, he thinks- and eats two legs of chicken, half of a steak, and about three helpings of potatoes before he's full. He doesn't think he's ever had so much food placed in front of him in his _life._

They're directed to follow Prefects, all of whom look indistinguishable from the other older students but for a tiny silver badge on their robes, to their Houses, and he waves to Yusuf on their way out of the Great Hall, Ravenclaw heading for the stairs ahead of the Gryffindors. Their prefect, a tall boy named Wood, points out the statue of Godric Gryffindor on their way- the statue pictures an old, bearded wizard with a lion crouched at his feet and a sword at his hip, who looks rather like Headmaster Dumbledore, all things considered.

The flood of Slytherin first-years (a small flood, but they all look rather water-like, all of the students in their sea of black robes) passes by them, and he realizes that their hoods are green, and thus notices that his own is now magically dark red, and where there'd been a badge with the Hogwarts crest on the front of his robes before, now there's the crest of a roaring lion standing on its hind legs, on a field of blood red and gold. His stomach flips, seeing it, although he doesn't know why. All the excitement, he supposes, spotting Eames among the green-hooded Slytherins.

"Eames!" he calls, grinning. He hadn't been able to see the other boy very well from where he'd sat in the Great Hall. The other first years in the Gryffindoor group are either staring about wide-eyed as he is, or chattering among themselves if they know one another already, and it's nice to have at least two people he knows- three, if he counts Eames' brother, and he supposes he can.

Hearing his name, Eames eyes the crowd of first year Gryffindors, looking for Arthur and waving when he finds him. He knows very well where the Gryffindors are headed- they have Gryffindor Tower, his brother’s told him all about that. He knows perilously little about the Slytherins, though, aside from something about the dungeons. He can’t seem to decide if that’s wicked or terrifying. It might be both.

He’ll worry about that soon enough; right now he’s busy being excited, returning Arthur’s grin. Looks like he’s pretty happy with the Sorting, then. Not bad for a bloke who didn’t seem to believe that the Sorting Hat could be a thing.

“Who’re you, then?” one of the other Slytherins- Austin Royce, who so happens to be a cousin (once or twice) of Eames’, which has always struck him as mildly unfortunate- asks, spotting Eames waving and pausing as well to eye Arthur. He is of course the same boy who’d snickered at Arthur’s lack of knowledge regarding Giants, earlier, which Eames registers. It doesn’t take a genius to determine that Royce is really asking what Arthur’s blood status is. Which, of course, Royce knows can’t be anything but muggleborn.

Eames hesitates; he can’t help it. He’s not keen on starting a row on his first night in Hogwarts, and he’s going to have to deal with Royce for the next seven years. He’s a bit full of himself for an eleven year old who’s only recently lost his baby teeth, but Eames supposes he can’t really speak to that, being several inches shorter than most boys their age. And he isn’t so bad, Eames supposes. No reason to get himself ostracized on the first night here because he has a mild dislike for the bloke, especially when he’s so very good at keeping such things well hidden. And in a fight, what would Arthur do but defend himself? He doesn’t even understand blood status.

“That’s Arthur,” Eames interrupts before Arthur can introduce himself, tone sort of implying that Royce should well know who Arthur is, but not saying as much aloud. Diffusing the situation before it becomes one is his best bet. And after that, fleeing. “C’mon, we’re losing the Prefect, I’m not wandering about the dungeons alone.”

Royce doesn't move, though, frowning at Arthur, who'd stayed behind as his own group had headed up the staircase, staring right back at the unknown Slytherin. "What's your surname?" Royce asks, the request very nearly a demand.

Arthur's brow furrows. Surname. Last name? Okay, not the weirdest thing he's encountered today in terms of wizarding things, not by a long shot, that's for sure. "Kaufman," he says, one brow going up. On his young face, the expression is almost comical. "What about it?"

"Kaufman," Royce repeats, glancing over at Eames. "You're a halfblood, then?"

Arthur shakes his head slowly, still not sure where this is going. "No, my mum's not a witch. My dad wasn't a wizard either, far as I know. _Why_?" Royce is sneering, and Arthur's fists clench. He's taken shite throughout his life for being the new boy, the poor boy, nearly an orphan, the one with the crazy mum, the foster kid. He's proved himself at every primary school he's attended. This isn't any different. "What's it to _you_?"

Half behind Royce, Eames is obviously uncertain about this entire… conversation, and he winces a bit at Arthur’s tone, and the direction this is clearly going. He’s not much for confrontation, to be honest, and unlike Arthur, he knows where this is going, so he knows very well that it’ll _be_ a confrontation. Royce is, like most purebloods on one level or another, quite prejudiced regarding muggleborns and half-bloods with less than enough magical blood.

Of course, Arthur wouldn’t know about all that. He wouldn’t know about the war, either, so recently ended as these things go. Eames knows a lot of people whose families were involved. Everyone was involved. But the Death Eaters lost, and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is gone, so Eames had hoped that maybe it wouldn’t be like this. Well, to be honest, he hadn’t given it much thought at all until now. The only reason he’d cared that Arthur is a muggleborn was because he wanted to know about the muggle post.

Frankly, after the train ride, Eames rather likes Arthur, and he doesn’t want to be party to anyone bothering him because of his blood status. But at the same time, he knows Royce, and he doesn’t want to start off his first term at Hogwarts with everyone assuming he’s a blood traitor. The only reasonable solution, then, is to leave them to it without having to express an opinion or take sides at all. Seems logical to him, and he does pause for a moment to appreciate how very right the Sorting Hat might have been about him.

Well. He doesn’t want to be involved in Arthur finding out about all of this business. Nothing wrong with that. “If you two don’t mind not knowing how to get to your dormitories, that’s your business,” he interrupts, then turns and heads for the tail end of the line of Slytherins as they turn a corner, adding, “See you,” just before he disappears.

Arthur stares after Eames' retreating back, his expression one of obvious surprise. Royce jeers at him, his expression the same as every other bully and twat Arthur's encountered in primary school. "Did your girlfriend ditch you, _muggleborn?_ "

It's the first time Arthur's been confronted with this particular prejudice, but not the first time he's met with prejudice in general, a sad state of affairs for someone who's only eleven, but he doesn't realize that. He only recognizes the angry, hot knot in the pit of his belly, which is why he steps right up to Royce, who's about his height, and then punches him in the face. Royce falls back, crying out, and Arthur hears Professor McGonagall shouting, rushing up to them, but before he turns to face her he hisses, "He's not my girlfriend _or_ my friend, arseface, so piss the hell off."

" _Ten points from Gryffindor!_ " The students milling around them have formed a large circle, all staring and whispering about muggle-dueling. Snape stalks over to Royce, jerking him to his feet by one arm, and Arthur finds his own Head of House towering over him, intimidating as even the half-giant hadn't been. "To your dormitory, Mr. Kaufman! Fighting on your first night! You should be ashamed!"

But as a group of third- and fourth-year Gryffindors kindly (enthusiastically) escort him up the moving staircase, he's patted on the back, and he's smiling shyly by the time they reach the portrait of the fat lady in the pink dress, who is drunk and singing terribly.

And thus Arthur's first year at Hogwarts begins.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hogsmeade is crowded on the first Saturday of the year that Hogwarts students are allowed to visit. Granted, Hogsmeade is _always_ crowded on weekends that students are allowed to visit, but the first weekend, every student who is allowed (and some who are not) invariably goes, and stays as long as possible. This, Eveline decides, is good; she blends in a little better in a crowd, and more, absences of students who _ought_ to be there aren’t noticed.

Of course, not technically being a Hogwarts student, she has no need to worry about the presence or absence of their students. But, well. She does a bit, since she’s here waiting for someone from Hogwarts.

This isn’t a date. She has reminded herself of this about fourteen thousand times. She’d met Arthur here a few times the year before; being from Beauxbatons (or so the story goes), she was allowed to visit England some weekends because of her family. She’d come here to see Mal- her cousin, who really ought to be going to Beauxbatons, but for her father, who is British- and met Arthur in passing. And then one Saturday she’d spotted him sitting in the corner of the Three Broomsticks, where he’d been abandoned by his friend for some Ravenclaw girl, and she’d sat down with him.

Since then, a few letters over the summer… well. It might _seem_ very romantic, but it hasn’t been classified as a date, and therefore it’s not. No reason to be all fidgety. She’s much too sophisticated for that, anyway. Just because she hasn’t seen him in a year… right. She forces herself to relax, keeping her posture as perfect as possible when one is seated on a bench outside the post office, and absolutely does not swing her legs. She’ll lose a shoe if she does that (and she worked so hard at wearing heels properly, it would be a shame), and she is finally tall enough that her legs comfortably hit the ground even when she’s sitting the entire way back on the bench. Fourteen, she decides, is a good age for her. But she’d known that already. More or less.

Arthur had told her that he has Quidditch practice before Hogsmeade; she’s not surprised when he’s not among the first people to the small town. But she _will_ be surprised if he’s not here on time to meet her, especially since a Slytherin bloke- sixth year, she knows- has been making eyes at her since she sat down on this bench and she’s going to have to have a word with him in a few minutes if Arthur doesn’t get here soon. And since her concept of “words” would probably involve a broken limb and maybe a broken heel, she’d really rather avoid that. No need to draw attention to herself.

Arthur appears a few minutes later, looking around himself while clearly attempting not to look as though he's doing so. He looks little like the first year Sorted into Gryffindor three years before, wearing Muggle jeans under a sweater and shirt and now significantly taller, having grown into his skinny limbs a bit (he'd prefer to do a bit more growing, truth be told, but he's trying very hard to be patient). At any rate, he's still gangly but less stork-like, and he's much more graceful than he'd been the year before, always bumping into anything- his newfound, and hard-earned coordination, had gotten him onto the Gryffindor Quidditch team as a Chaser this year, and he's proud of it.

And still damp from his shower after Quidditch practice. Damn Charlie Weasley for making practice run into the Hogsmeade day, but nothing to be done about it now. Arthur had been in such a hurry that he'd stopped to comb his hair and straighten his clothes in the mirror, but hadn't had time to think of a drying charm. Now he pulls his cloak a bit tighter over his shoulders, wishing he'd thought of that... But all thoughts of that nature are wiped from his mind as he spots Eveline sitting exactly where she'd said she'd be, in her letter, just in front of the owl post office.

She looks beautiful in a skirt and a sweater and boots, a blue Beauxbatons cloak draped over her shoulders. He straightens his own cloak, suddenly feeling like an oaf, a messy, damp oaf next to her, with not a pale hair out of place. Surely she'll be disappointed with him, he thinks. Her letters are always funny, can make him laugh even when he's had a terrible day (such as most of the summer, stuck in a London city orphanage but too proud to admit it to anyone at Hogwarts).

But it's not a date, he reminds himself. They're only hanging out. Talking for a bit, stopping in at Zonko's, all of that. He's just glad she'd managed to coordinate her visit to Mallorie Miles with the Hogsmeade weekend, so he could see her again. Even if they do exchange letters (not too many, as he doesn't want to seem desperate, even if he is, a bit), this is different, seeing one another in person. It feels like snitches are fluttering about in his stomach as he steps up to her, trying to look cool.

"Eveline," he says, smiling in what he hopes is a confident way. Inwardly, he panics. Should he sit with her? Would that be... presuming stuff? Like that he's allowed? Or should he stay standing? Standing is awkward, while she's sitting... oh, fuck, he can't handle this.

His panic is, luckily, either not outwardly obvious or entirely ignored by Eveline, who smiles as soon as she sees him. His hair is wet, presumably from the shower, which she imagines must be kind of chilly out here but doesn't seem to bother her at all. Arthur has always looked good, to her; he's grown since last year, enough so that she was certain she could wear heels today and not be taller than him. And he's much more at ease with himself, physically; thirteen was a fairly terrible age for Arthur, but then again, thirteen is a terrible age for just about everyone, herself included (though she would never admit it). Eveline is a bit sorry she didn't get to see him at Quidditch practice; she knows that must have been a sight she'd enjoy. Then again, she would probably have distracted him. She'd be distracted if Arthur was sitting there watching her do something like that.

Not that she has the absolutely overwhelming desire to impress Arthur or anything. Absolutely not. This whole thing isn't totally indicative of her desire for Arthur's attention. At least Mal doesn't make fun of her for it. Then again, Mal doesn't really make fun of people. She's the classiest person Eveline knows, legitimately so. Well, aside, she thinks, from perhaps Arthur, who's a bit younger, but the indications are still there. Eveline is a pretty good judge of people. Arthur's only going to keep growing into himself.

"Arthur," she returns, and promptly removes that reason for panic by standing (notably without a single wobble, despite the heels - hard-earned success, that). He can't have spent more than half an hour getting showered and down here after Quidditch practice, but he still looks good. It took her _three hours_ to get ready today. That may have had something to do with last-minute panic about what to wear and changing her mind eight times, but still. It's a bit unfair. She doesn't blame Arthur for it, though. And very little is going to dim her smile, now that he's shown up. Especially when she notes that the Slytherin sixth-year who'd been eyeing her has wandered off. She can concentrate on Arthur, then. Not that this is a date or anything. So she can't say anything date-like. Or do anything date-like. Which includes moving too close. In fact, she spends several worried moments trying to determine how close she should stand to keep it from being awkward. Is she being too obvious? Could she possibly _be_ more obvious, going to all this trouble to see him? Does he think she's desperate for that? It _is_ a bit, yeah, but he shouldn't know that. "How was practice?"

Arthur's never talked to a girl wearing heels before. It might be a bit of a ridiculous first, but it definitely still is one. "It was good," he says, his attitude implying that the two hours he'd just spent flying around the Quidditch pitch had been nothing, really. That he hadn't even broken a sweat. "Weasley's got his eye on the Quidditch Cup this year. I think we'll do it."

But if he starts talking about Quidditch he'll never stop, and he doesn't want to be boring. He can talk Quidditch with his mates for as long as he wants, any other time. Right now he's hanging out with Eveline. "How's your school year going?" He pauses, and then adds casually, "Want to walk over to Honeydukes first?" After all, this isn't a date. So they're just two friends going to Honeydukes. That's perfectly normal.

“Sure,” Eveline agrees nonchalantly. Honeydukes is certainly very non-date-like. People go there together all the time. There’s a bit of an awkward moment as they both sort of wait for the other to start walking in that direction, but after that they start off fairly amicably. After all, everyone likes Honeydukes.

“School is school,” she says after a moment, answering his question from a minute ago. She shrugs a little, uncaring. “Any day I’m not accidentally lit on fire or attacked by pixies is a good day. What about yours? With practice on top of classes this year, I’m surprised you can make it out here on weekends.”

"It's not so bad," Arthur says with another shrug, deliberately not thinking about the full twenty inches of an essay on Congealing Potions that he has to go to the library and get started on right after dinner, as it's due on Monday and today is Saturday. But right now, he's not worrying about it, because he's actually hanging out with Eveline.

He's not going to freak out. That would not be cool. He'd scare her off.

He decides that it's perfectly okay non-date protocol to hold the door for her. "I get everything done. It's crazy that you could make it here this weekend, and make time to see me." He smiles a bit shyly, as they look at the wide array of candies from just inside the door. "What would you like? I'll get you something. Since you came all this way." He doesn't have a ton of money (or much at all, really), but he's already decided that he'll afford this.

Eveline smiles a little, almost shyly, when he opens the door for her; she's not quite used to that, but probably shouldn't be surprised that Arthur would hold the door for her. Even if it's not a date, he's just being a gentleman, which is sweet. Not that she'd say that. Definitely would not say that to him. She knows very well he wouldn't want to be called sweet, being well-acquainted with the male ego.

Which is, unfortunately, another reason it's hard to turn down an offer like that. A bit surprised, Eveline looks over at Arthur for a moment, not sure what to say, and maybe feeling a bit guilty despite herself. Not that she'd say anything- that would be horribly rude- but she knows very well that Arthur doesn't have a lot of money. So he shouldn't be buying her anything. Especially since this... isn't a date. Right?

She has no idea, frankly. And she hasn't the faintest how to go about turning that down without insulting him. Especially since offering is sort of a date-like thing. Which wouldn't be so bad, actually would be great (no reason to lie to herself after going to all this not-inconsiderable trouble), but would increase her anxiety tenfold. It's already pretty bad, especially when he smiles at her. "You don't have to do that," she says, honestly, and looking a bit shy herself, adds, "I wanted to come see you."

Now it's Arthur's turn to flush a bit, smiling hesitantly at her. "I want to," he says, not wanting to argue with her but not wanting to just... not get her something. "It can be for both of us, then." After all, he wouldn't mind sharing some chocolate. Or anything she wanted to get, really, barring maybe the blood lollypops. Aside from kids taking stupid dares and vampires, he can't think of anyone who'd want to eat one of those.

He sweeps his arm around, hamming it up a little and then lowering it, embarrassed. "What would you like? I could eat anything, here." He really could. Actually, he could probably eat the entire store, with how big his appetite has been lately, and he'd missed lunch, what with practice. But he probably shouldn't be bragging about that; Eveline wouldn't be impressed. Girls are impressed by different things. And stuff.

Eveline's smile loses some of its shyness, getting a bit larger as she looks at Arthur. Dramatics will always work on her, and he's still being very sweet. Plus she's certain he _could_ eat just about anything here. "Me, too," she agrees. After all, who _wouldn't_ eat most of the candy in here, barring the bad flavours of jelly beans and the candies not intended for wizards so much as other creatures. Of course, it's different for girls, who have to pretend not to be as hungry as boys, and in general eat much more slowly. But that's all right, she doesn't think she could stomach a ton of candy anyway. She'd probably get sick.

Of course, the idea of sharing something with Arthur might end up making her unable to eat anything anyway. It's definitely silly how nervous she is. Internally, of course. It's different than writing letters. You get to go over everything in a letter as many times as you want. And yes, maybe she fretted over everything in each letter sent to him over the summer, but at least in writing there's more of a chance to keep yourself from saying something idiotic.

"I dunno," she says after a moment. "Maybe chocolate?" Of course, that narrows it down to... about half the store, but it's a start.

Arthur smiles back at her and looks around, as well. This won't be an easy task, if neither of them knows at all what they'd like to have, barring that it's chocolate...

It takes them almost a quarter of an hour, but they do eventually choose something, chocolate-covered balls of toffee to be specific, and Arthur buys them half a pound of the treats, handing them to Eveline to carry once he pays for them, not letting her split the cost. "It's my treat," he says firmly, plopping the bag into their hands. "I'm a chauvinist. Sue me."

She looks confused, and he realizes (as he commonly does) that he's just used a muggle expression she wouldn't recognize. "Not actually sue. It's a muggle phrase, sorry."

"Oh," Eveline says, relieved that she's not being an imbecile. Arthur obviously doesn't expect her to know muggle sayings; how could she? That's a relief, since she was very afraid, for a moment, that she was just being especially daft. Now would not be the time for that to happen. She wonders, not for the first time, how he must've felt, coming from a muggle life to be immersed in a completely different culture. Now he's got a handle on both, which, she thinks at least, must put him at an advantage.

She gives up on paying for the candy, mostly, but only this once (as she tells herself). Instead, she thanks him quietly, and they wander out of the packed candy shop. She manages not to trip or stumble the entire time, which is a blessing. "What an odd phrase," she determines after a minute. "I can only hope muggles don't go about suing one another over who pays for candy. Then again, I know some wizards who would happily do just that."

"Oh, many muggles would probably do just that. They're just like wizards. Money is the important thing for most of them. You wouldn't believe the things they sue one another for." He shakes his head. "Americans are the most mad about it."

They both spend a moment reflecting on the idiocy of Americans, and then move on, stepping into Zonko's.

When they emerge, Arthur is busy explaining how a Whoopee Cushion works, making rude noises without the aid of magic, and they wander in the direction of the Three Broomsticks. After he finishes his explanation with an auditory illustration of the noise one such rubber cushion makes, he flushes. Probably not the best thing to discuss with a girl. "I mean... it's very rude-sounding, of course, but funny all the same. Please stop me if you've heard enough."

Contrary to what Arthur may have been expecting, however, Eveline just laughs, genuinely amused. And not at Arthur’s flushing and sudden realization that that might be rude, but rather at his demonstration. “No,” she says, smiling, obviously trying to reassure him, because she’s certainly noticed his flushing. “That’s funny.”

She’s never heard of that sort of thing before, which is, all things considered, not particularly surprising. She’d never given much thought to muggle jokes or joke shops, like Zonko’s, but now that she thinks of it, she can’t imagine that they _wouldn’t_ have something like that. “Someone put a lot of work into that, making something like that without magic. They must take jokes very seriously.” She brightens, a bit. “You know, wizards would never know what that is. They’d never see it coming.”

Startled, Arthur turns to blink at her, and then he grins very slowly, his eyes lighting up a bit. "I think you're officially the coolest girl... ever," he announces after a beat. It's the truth. It has to be. She's a girl who doesn't wrinkle her nose at the sound of a whoopee cushion, coming from his mouth, even. She must be one of a kind. Either that, or the girls at Beauxbatons are infinitely more awesome than the girls at Hogwarts. But he'd like to think that it's Eveline.

She blushes at that, and he has the sudden urge to kiss her, but he can't, because this isn't a date. Instead, he asks if she'd like to go to the Three Broomsticks and get butterbeers. She says yes, and they spend the next few hours just talking... and laughing... and blushing.

It's the best non-date Arthur's ever been on. Granted, it's also the _only_ non-date he's ever been on, but that's not the point. The point is that it's awesome.

The summer between third and fourth year was good to Eames.

While his brother had been running about with his _girlfriend_ and studying feverishly so that he’d do well in his seventh year, Eames had spent most of his time outdoors, swimming or on a broomstick. Or, his new favorite activity, weight lifting. After all, his father and brother were always much bigger than he was, and though Alex was never too terrible about it (brotherly spats aside), when it really rankled was at school, when all of the boys in their year were taller than he was. ‘Course, he could have just made himself taller- one of the many perks of being a metamorphmagus- but it just isn’t the same.

Very few people at school had ever really dared to bother Eames, not after the first time he’d gotten his revenge, ruining the reputation of a Gryffindor three years older than him and getting him detention for a week all the while managing to steal his girlfriend (temporarily, Eames hadn’t been particularly interested in girls yet at age eleven, but he doesn’t half-ass these things). But though he’d never been easy to overlook- at school, anyway, his father is another matter entirely- Eames had still waited very impatiently for a growth spurt.

That summer, the growth spurt came. He’s not tall, no, and suspects he never will be, but he’s not short anymore, either. And in the space of one summer he seems to have doubled in size in other ways, his shoulders now wide the way his brother’s are. And where he once had leftover baby fat, there’s now muscle. Nothing but it, too, because Eames can’t seem to eat enough to gain any fat at all.

Suddenly, life at school, already enjoyable, is infinitely better. Eames tried out for the Slytherin Quidditch team as a Beater; he’d knocked out the Captain in a scrimmage after two minutes and carried on to take out three prospective Chasers in succession, got hit with the quaffle and proceeded to chuck it at the head of the opposing Seeker without a moment’s pause. Violent and cunning; a perfect fit for a Slytherin Beater.

Classes are, of course, about the same; Eames hardly seems to care, like most fourteen year olds. He gets by, usually, except in transfiguration, which is by far his best subject. But then, classes are certainly not the main point of life at Hogwarts. It’s the _socialization_. And Eames does love that. He’s got more friends than should be allowed, has several schemes and rackets going successfully on any given day, and in general spends as much of each day causing havoc and being the center of attention as possible. It’s like heaven on earth, but with professors, and his stupid fucking owl.

It’s one of these schemes that Eames is pondering when he makes his way into Potions with Amy Foster, one of the girls in his year (lately he has been spending more time with the girls in his year than the boys, mainly because they won’t leave him alone and he can’t find it in himself to dissuade them). He walks in to find that Professor Snape is not, in fact, there; probably because they’re a bit early. The walk from the Slytherin common room is not a far one, although the walk from Care of Magical Creatures is, which is where he was _supposed_ to be coming from. But alas, Eames may have slept in this morning, since he was… out last night.

He mutters something to Amy as they walk in, and she giggles, smacking him playfully on the arm before running up to her table to put her things away and waiting for her partner to show up, all the while sending him horribly unsubtle _looks_ from beneath her lashes. Eames saunters over to his table to wait for Royce, and spotting his _favorite person in the world,_ drops his books on the table with a loud _thud_. Arthur does not look up from his book, purposefully ignoring him.

Eames is not deterred, despite the wound Arthur’s attitude inflicts upon his poor heart. He proceeds to throw rolled-up pieces of parchment in Arthur’s direction every so often, making it clear that he wants Arthur’s attention. Yes, it is clear. It is very clear, because he also says, almost humming, “Arthur… Arthurrrr,” roughly every two seconds. Because no one said Slytherins had to be subtle.

Arthur puts up with this for all of five minutes, which is more patience than he normally shows, admittedly. But he's trying not to get on Snape's bad side this year (impossible though that idea is, considering he's in Gryffindor), and getting into an argument with Eames, snapping at him or yelling at him, will only get points taken away from Arthur's House, not the Slytherin's, since the Potions Master never takes points from Slytherin House.

It's always like this. Eames drives him up a wall with his ridiculousness, his getting around the rules but still always managing to win at whatever he's doing. And everyone loves him, which is even more ridiculous. Arthur's so terrified of breaking a rule (well, where a teacher could find out, anyway), that he'll do something horrible and get his arse expelled, and be shunted back to the muggle orphanage where he lives over the summer, that he tries so, _so_ hard to be perfect. He has to do well, has to ace the OWLs and the NEWTs and get a good job, because that's the only chance he's got, really.

And then there's Eames, who smuggles in Firewhiskey and God knows what else, who's probably broken every school rule there is (and maybe managed to have some new ones created), who has a rich family and an awesome brother and a huge house to go back to, even if his parents are shits (at least according to Alexander). And maybe Arthur is a little bit jealous of him, but the annoyance is way more overwhelming.

Eames focuses on Arthur with an intensity that usually makes Arthur want to punch him. He doesn't know why Eames fixates on him so much, why he, Arthur, always has to be the focal point of Eames' harassment, the butt of his jokes, the one Eames teases to the great amusement of any Slytherins present, but he wishes it would stop.

It usually goes something like this: Eames comes up and teases Arthur. Arthur doesn't respond. Eames continues to tease Arthur, usually with some sort of mocking innuendo thrown in. All the Slytherins laugh. Arthur snaps and snarls something back. The Slytherins laugh even harder.

He tries so hard not to lower himself to Eames' level and give the other boy a response, but sometimes it's impossible. This time is no exception, and after about two minutes, the drawled _rrrrr_ 's push him to the snapping point. But instead of slamming the book shut and yelling, he closes it slowly and stares up at the other boy. He'd had an amazing Hogsmeade day, and he's trying to be more mature, and to handle this like an adult. He's pretty sure Eveline wouldn't go for a bloke who got into fights with immature little twats; she's far too classy for that. "What do you want, Eames?" he says calmly, only glaring a little.

Not dissuaded by the glaring or the uncharacteristically quiet response, Eames smiles beatifically back at Arthur. His hair, which had previously been tinged a bit green to go with the general ambiance of the dungeon classroom, reverts to its normal brown abruptly, as though declaring his innocence. No reason for Arthur to glare at him, he's only trying to get his attention. In fact, he's been rather less obnoxious about it than usual thus far today.

And yet, first Arthur ignores him and now he glares and demands to know what Eames _wants_. Merlin. There is no loosening him up. At least, not in the standard ways that Eames has been trying for four years. Some people take drastic measures. But this is not the time or place for drastic measures.

"Nothing," he says pleasantly, ceasing his throwing of parchment and calling Arthur's name now that he's gotten the other boy's attention. "Just wanted to say hello."

Arthur eyes him suspiciously, and slowly opens his book again. It's a compendium of the hexes, jinxes, and curses typically seen in the Auror exam; clearly, he's getting a head start. Well, actually it's entitled _Spelles, Hexes, and Jinxes Commonely Employed by Combating Wizards_ , but Madam Pince had recommended it. And it has a bunch of spells he's never heard of before, so he intends to get some practice in after classes and Quidditch practice are over for the day.

"Hello," he says slowly, eyeing the other boy's now-brown hair. He looks around to either side, and forces himself not to turn and look behind himself, as he'll only be smirked at.

Before he can return to his book, however, Snape swoops in, starting a full three minutes early. Around them, the students loitering in the back of the room and just outside the door, in the corridor, scramble to their seats before he starts to take points, and Arthur is suddenly too busy taking frantic notes to pay any mind to Eames at all.

It's not until after class, when Royce is calling his name, that his mind turns to the Slytherins again. They're in the corridor at the foot of the ramps and he's discussing the next day's practice with Charlie Weasley (and the potential problem of their Keeper keeping his mind in the game) when he hears Royce's familiar jeering voice echoing up the hallway.

"Well, well, what have we here? Suppose you can't get any better friends than muggleborns, Weasley. Be sure to wash later on."

Arthur feels the back of his neck flush, and he turns to stare at Royce, seeing Charlie putting his hand on his wand out of the corner of his eye. Behind Royce is the boy's usual crowd of cronies, a dark-green-haired Eames among them. "Can't you come up with something new, Royce?" Arthur says neutrally, hand on his own wand. They'd started it, not him. "Or is your tiny little mind forced to just keep repeating the same refrain, over and over?"

He’s got a point there, tiny brain and all, but much as he might feel that this sort of teasing is needless and really quite crass, Eames has never been the sort to get in between two blokes when they’re going at it. Especially not when it’s a Slytherin and a Gryffindor, and he rather agrees with the Gryffindor. That is generally frowned upon in Slytherin house. The expectation is that if you disagree, you will abstain from the argument.

Eames normally does just that. His points are made in other ways. And besides, he could care less about anyone’s blood status. He’s just not socially suicidal enough to say something like that in front of the Slytherins, and yet not cruel enough to deny it in front of the Gryffindors. In his mind, it shouldn’t even be an issue. And therefore, he shouldn’t have to take a stance on it. And more, it’s insufferably rude to bring something like that up in public.

So that would be why Eames slips away, hair changing back to normal once more before he makes his way back behind the crowd of Slytherins gathered, just another student wanting to get away from the gathering Slytherins and Gryffindors before the inevitable row breaks out. Arthur can take care of himself, and Royce deserves any beating he manages to get before they’re caught by Snape. _He’s_ off to Charms, and finds Yusuf along the way, eyes going Ravenclaw blue to match his mate’s tie. Flitwick loves that to this day. Eames does his utmost to think about Yusuf’s rolling his eyes and the Professor’s fond shaking his head, instead of what sort of mess he might have left behind in the hallway.

When the Gryffindors appear at dinner that night, both Arthur and Charlie Weasley are looking a bit the worse for wear, but Royce is in the Hospital Wing dealing with a jinx that made his ears grow to the size of an elephant's, and three detentions or not, Arthur is certain that it was worth it. (He's also certain that he needs to learn that jinx from Charlie.)

Of course, Royce and the rest of the Slytherins will be plotting their revenge, but he refuses to worry about that at the moment. He notices, as he makes his way over to the Ravenclaw table to sit with Yusuf and Ariadne, his little second year protegee, as he calls her, that Royce isn't the only one missing from the Slytherin table. Not that he really cares, or pays it special attention, it's just something to note.

Maybe they're off planning their vengeance together. How should he know?

Ariadne is quiet, digging into her food, and Yusuf has his nose buried in a book; Arthur eyes him, raising a brow. "What, no comment?"

"Nope."

Arthur sighs a little, grabbing the pitcher of pumpkin juice and pouring himself a full glass. He's got practice tonight, for an hour, after an hour with the weights again. "How'd you do on the Transfiguration quiz?"

Before Yusuf can answer, the loud sound of little girls giggling echoes from the doorway; Arthur glances over automatically, but then he does a double-take, seeing a small brunette head among the Ravenclaw second years. And then he rounds on the "Ariadne" sitting across from him.

He bites back a curse, magical or otherwise, because Eames is Yusuf's friend, even if Arthur really dislikes him, these days. It's worse than dislike, at the moment, because Royce's jeers and the laughter of the rest of the Slytherins are still ringing in his ears, and his eyes narrow before his expression smoothes. It's been this way since first year, since the first time he'd gotten into a fight with Royce and Eames had just walked away, even though they'd been friends on the train, or at least he'd thought so. Three years later, he shouldn't still be angry about it. He _shouldn't_. It's stupid.

"You don't have to disguise yourself," he says, deceptively mild and pleasant. "Wouldn't want you to have to eat with a mudblood. But I guess you don't want anyone realizing it's you." He doesn't put any emphasis on the word, but just stands, shoving his own book back into his bag and walking straight out of the Great Hall, past a very confused-looking Ariadne with her friends.

For a moment, it seems as though Eames (who has turned back into himself with some effort and a bit of transfiguration on his clothes) might follow after Arthur. What he’d _say_ is anyone’s guess, but in the end he seems to convince himself not to try it. Frankly, after earlier, he knows very well why Arthur wouldn’t be in the best of moods, or particularly receptive to reason. He’d be more likely to end up cursed, following the other boy, than to convince him that he’s being a bit of a prat.

Then again, it is always very difficult to convince someone of such things. Eames aside, really, he knows very well that he can be a prat.

So he stays where he is, shaking his head when Yusuf glances over his book at him. Ariadne (who Eames thinks is absolutely adorable, not that he’s suicidal enough to say such a thing to the second-year girl) sits down, shooting them both a suspicious look, but is mostly ignored. Dinner, then, carries on quietly and without much ado. Eames leaves after a while to bother Amy and a group of Slytherins, but he can never be expected to stay in one place for very long.

It isn’t until early the next morning, when the Great Hall is still mostly empty but for the few students and faculty who bother to get up even earlier than necessary for a bit of breakfast before classes, that Eames responds to Arthur. Eames is not normally a morning person per se, but he’s not really any anything person. His sleeping schedule is more like a strong suggestion, as he is as happy to sleep through the day as the night. This morning, he happens to be awake because he’d been working on some Charms in the library and wasn’t interested in being caught actually doing his work. Just doesn’t mesh with his happy-go-lucky reputation.

So he’s awake in time to find Arthur sitting alone at one of the long tables, eating, but mostly reading the newspaper. The Minister of Magic and some other old blokes smile politicians’ smiles up at Eames from the front page as he sits down next to Arthur, without preamble or any form of harassment, and says, perfectly seriously, “Before you curse me or storm off, I would like to make one thing abundantly clear. I couldn’t care less who your parents are or aren’t. I have never used that word to describe anyone, let alone you.” Eames has been thinking about this all night, despite himself. Arthur hadn’t said much the day before, but he hadn’t had to. His tone, and his meaning, was made quite clear. And it’s been this way for quite some time, if Eames allows himself to realize it.

He had, in general, let it go. Mainly because he knows that Arthur has to put up with a lot of shite from a lot of people. And maybe, yeah, because of other reasons. But just because people are prejudiced in Arthur’s direction doesn’t give him a free pass at returning the sentiment to undeserving parties. Even if those parties happen to be Eames. Who has never stood up for Arthur, no. But he’s never condoned anyone harassing him (or any other muggleborn, for that matter), and never done it himself. Leaving the scene might not be the bravest reaction in the world, but it’s always been the best option in his position.

So, yes. Eames has let it go. But this is quite enough, and if he allows himself to admit it, had stung. Quite a lot. In fact, he is really quite angry right now. He keeps his voice low, never one for excessive shouting or great shows of anger, but there is a sharp edge to his tone, and his words, as he adds, “And before you hop on your high horse and trot off, allow me to point out that presuming to know my position on the matter of blood status based on what little you know about me is extremely discriminatory of you.” That said, Eames stands abruptly, adds without a hint of innuendo, “Enjoy your breakfast,” and finding that he has no appetite, leaves to wander outside until classes begin.

Arthur stares at his retreating back, newspaper forgotten in his hands, along with his food. He's not sure what to even think, much less what to say, and there's no way he could come up with a suitable response for that, so he doesn't, and he definitely doesn't even consider following Eames.

After a few minutes, he gets up, grabbing his bag and abandoning his breakfast and stuffing the Daily Prophet into his pack. When he leaves, he heads in the opposite direction from the one in which Eames had headed.

He gives what the other boy had said a lot of thought, over the next few hours; his first instinct had been to snarl back that well, Eames had never said a word about his opinions, had he? He'd let the harassment and the slurs carry right on and walked away, every time, since their first night in Hogwarts. That afternoon on the train ride, Arthur had thought he'd made a friend, but they'd been all of eleven. Things change. But now that he looks back... well, Eames had never said anything derogatory about muggleborns, then. Arthur had always assumed that Eames had just agreed with the rest of Slytherin, but hadn't been rude enough to say so, himself, at least not to Arthur's face. But... maybe he'd been wrong.

Well, not maybe. Obviously he had been, and obviously he'd offended Eames. Why his offending Eames bothers him, he's really not sure, because he doesn't even like the guy. But the fact that he'd been wrong, and had insulted Eames, bothers him in the general sense, not in that it's Eames, specifically, but just that Arthur had done so at all, to anyone.

And he hadn't thought about it before, really, had just focused on Slytherin House as the root of his troubles, because a lot of the Slytherins _are_ vocal about their opinions on muggleborns. But really, if Eames doesn't agree, he couldn't go about saying so, he supposes. The rest of them would make anyone with a dissenting opinion miserable. And... well, he doesn't know of any anti-muggleborn people in Gryffindor, but then he supposes he wouldn't if any are there. The Gryffindors would be just as bad, shunning someone who thought that way. His own house isn't the least judgmental, he knows that...

Well, shit.

He doesn't have an opportunity to speak to Eames alone before the next day; after Transfiguration, he sees the Slytherin break away from the other Ravenclaws and Slytherins in that class, slipping into the bathroom with Yusuf. Taking a deep breath, Arthur hurries in with them before he can convince himself not to. Yusuf arches a brow at him, ignoring the fact that Eames is clearly measuring out little bottles filled with a bright orange potion from a larger bottle presumably given to him by Yusuf. "Arthur. I have no idea why you're here."

Arthur clears his throat; Eames still doesn't look up. "Yusuf, could you... give us a minute?" he asks, not looking at the way Eames' hair is turning a sort of silvery-green. It's distracting, and he's on a mission.

"Sure, mate, I'll be guarding the door." Yusuf pats Arthur on the shoulder on the way out (slaps, really, not pats) and ignores the traitorous look Eames turns on him before refocusing on the bottles. Arthur squares his shoulders as the bathroom door swings shut.

"Eames... About what I said about you." He resists the urge to look down at his feet. "I didn't think it through, and you were right, I don't know much about you, it wasn't fair of me to judge. I was pissed off and I took it out on you; I apologize."

There's no immediate response; Eames hasn't paused in his pouring and measuring, and still doesn't even look at Arthur. Taking that as his dismissal, Arthur nods, even though the other boy can't see him. "Right. Later." Turning, he forces himself not to rush to the door, walking at a normal pace.

“Arthur,” Eames calls, a moment before he’s about to walk through the door. He hadn’t been certain that he would say anything; in fact, when Arthur had first appeared, he had given very serious thought to simply leaving the room. But Eames can tell when someone is walking in, ready for a fight. He’s very good at reading that in people, and has had plenty of occasion to see that very thing in Arthur specifically. But he hadn’t looked like he wanted to fight, so Eames had heard him out (albeit without looking at him).

To be honest, he was surprised. Maybe it was unfair of him, maybe even a little hypocritical, but he hadn’t expected Arthur to _apologize_. It had seemed more likely to him, when he’d thought about it (though he’d been trying so hard not to since the day before), that Arthur would ignore him at very best. After all, he _does_ harass the other boy. He does it a lot. Arthur is, in fact, Eames’ very favorite target. But the difference between him and, for instance, Royce, is that when Eames is teasing, it’s all in good fun.

Well. At least, it is most of the time. It is with Arthur, at any rate. It’s not that he’s never done anything like what Royce does, but then, no one’s perfect. All of Slytherin and all of Gryffindor are guilty of that sort of thing, harassing one another because that is what they do. But it’s not the same as bothering a bloke about his blood status. Eames has a lot of flaws, but being a bigot isn’t one of them.

But it seems… like Arthur got that. What with the apologizing. It takes Eames until Arthur has nearly walked out just to convince himself that he hadn’t heard the other boy wrong. And then, one split-second decision later, and he’s stopped Arthur, without a bloody idea what he’s going to say. Arthur turns around, and Eames’ hair has gone back to normal, and he’s looking in Arthur’s direction despite the bottles still in his hands.

He should tell Arthur to piss off. Eames has never been much for forgiveness. It’s really just not his forte. He holds on to a grudge like a three year old holds on to its favorite blanket, like the world will end if he lets go and he’ll wail and shriek about it so much that you just let him keep it. So it makes absolutely no sense that he means it when he says, “S’all right.”

Startled, Arthur looks back for a moment before he realizes he's been standing there for far too long. He nods to Eames and then breaks eye contact after a moment too long, and slips back out into the corridor. Well, that's done, and... it's done. Mission accomplished, and all of that. He can stop feeling guilty now.

Of course, this only means that after another day or so of quiet from Eames' direction, the teasing starts up again full-force. But Arthur's actually okay with that... or at least, he is until the next time he wants to pull Eames' hair out by the roots to get him to shut the hell up. But Eames just laughs at his anger, and despite Arthur's ire at this reaction, deep, _deep_ down inside he's glad things have returned to normal.

Even if he wants to _Silencio_ the other boy more than he's ever wanted to do anything in his entire life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It's fifth year when he finally works up the courage to ask Eveline out on an official date. He's still bound by the issue of being unable to use wizardry outside of school, and not being able to go further than Hogsmeade on the weekends when they can wander at least that far from the Hogwarts grounds, so their date does take place in Hogsmeade, but it's snowing and only a few weeks before Christmas, and the Three Broomsticks is extremely pleasant, with its roaring fires, warm butterbeer and early Christmas goose being served that afternoon.

They take a walk up to the Shrieking Shack, Arthur in his winter coat and Gryffindor scarf and Eveline in a lovely wool coat and pretty boots under her skirt; Arthur eyes her earmuffs for perhaps the fifth time, amazed that she can look so cute in them. Although if anyone could do so, it would be Eveline.

"I'm glad you could come visit again," he says, trying not to sound shy as he looks up at the clouds, making a ring around the moon. They'll get enough snow that Hogwarts will be buried by morning, but right now it's perfect. When he looks back down at her, she's standing much closer than she'd been, and he takes a deep breath, leaning down to kiss her cheek. When he pulls back, his face is completely red, and he watches her reaction apprehensively.

Despite the fact that Eveline, too, has turned rather red, there’s obviously no reason Arthur’s apprehension. After a moment, she manages to get past the complete surprise of that having happened- and being what she’d thought it was- and smiles, suddenly shy. She doesn’t know why _she’s_ shy, Arthur’s the one who kissed her, but then again… Arthur _kissed_ her. Merits shyness.

And absolutely not a happy dance. No. Maybe later. Okay, definitely later.

Arthur has turned completely red, and it’s very sweet, and Eveline absolutely cannot believe her luck, even more than she couldn’t when he’d asked her on a date (a real date). Arthur _kissed_ her. _Arthur_ kissed her. The happy dance really wants to break out. It really does. But instead, she smiles, and then, before she can stop herself, leans up, returning the kiss with one of her own. This one, however, is quick- she has to stand on tiptoes a bit- and brushes her lips to his. And of course, she turns _bright_ red, to her ears, she can feel it, but she thinks that was probably a good response.

Of course, it takes several swallows and ignoring the violent pounding of her heart before she manages, quietly, “Me too.”

Arthur chokes. It's not even a metaphor; he actually does choke a bit. But once he clears his throat, he smiles sheepishly. "Thank god," he says, breathing steadily, if a bit loudly. "I thought I might throw up, and I didn't, so..." He pauses, seeing her expression. "And maybe throwing up isn't the best thing to mention right after kissing you."

If possible, he turns even redder. Great job, Arthur. He sucks at this. It's unbelievable. "Sorry I'm not... you know. Some smooth French guy." He's really not. Smooth is the farthest thing from Arthur, it really is. Man, he is just digging himself deeper and deeper, isn't he?

Eveline laughs, but it’s obvious even before she explains herself that the laughter isn’t at Arthur’s expense. It’s also obvious that half of it is from nerves; Arthur’s not the only one who’d worried about throwing up. Granted, Arthur was the one who had to do the kissing, so… maybe it was more difficult for him. She’s not sure that’s true. It seems quite bad from this side as well. They’re probably about even.

“You’re smooth enough,” she says, turning redder still, but manages to say it. “I’d take you over a French boy any day.” She sounds quite certain of this. But then, they are on a date. She thinks her appreciation for Arthur in particular is fairly obvious. Right? “I am glad you didn’t throw up, though. That might’ve ruined the moment a bit.”

"Yeah," Arthur says, on the relieved side of awkward now. Oh, thank God, she's not grossed out.

But then that dreaded moment of uncomfortable silence descends, as they both look at anything but each other, and Arthur has an internal war with himself about whether it would be better to shove his hands into his pockets or try to kiss her again. He ends up doing sort of a fumbling, jerky maneuver where his fingers go into his pockets, but not the rest of his hands, and then pulling them back out so that they hang at his sides again.

"You can practically hear the crickets," he tries. And then he realizes that that's a thing from muggle telly and movies; a witch wouldn't have any idea what he's talking about. "Oh, right, sorry, it's a thing, in muggle films, where there's an awkward silence between people, in a romantic sort of scene- not that this is awkward at all, of course it's not- but in the scene, when they're awkward and silent, all you can hear are the crickets-"

His babbling is interrupted here, but he's not complaining, because he's forced to stop talking by Eveline's mouth landing on his again. His eyes close, and his arms go around her waist as her tongue slips into his own startled mouth, brushing up against his. At this point, he very suddenly loses all power of higher thought.

They pull back a little while later, both a bit dazed and startled, and both breathing a little harder than strictly necessary. It takes a moment- Arthur looks like he might be shocked, and frankly Eveline is surprised she worked up the nerve to give that a go- but soon enough, Eveline realizes that she had just sort of pounced upon him, and maybe that wasn’t okay?

Somewhere between thrilled, terrified, and maybe shocked, she watches Arthur for a moment, but he doesn’t say anything. Eveline hopes that’s a good sign, but isn’t quite certain enough of herself to be sure. Still, she doesn’t want to look like she’s totally silly and worried about everything. She doesn’t know about this crickets thing, but that did certainly help with the awkward silence. “Who’s awkward?”

"Not us," Arthur responds immediately, grinning. He's fairly sure that said grin must look a little foolish, but he can't stop. It's snowing a little, still, and Eveline has snowflakes in her hair, which is also very nearly glowing in the dim light of the streetlamp.

"You look beautiful." It slips out before he can stop it, and he flushes again even more, shuffling his feet a bit but unable to look away from her. She's wearing earmuffs, but she still looks gorgeous. He's pretty sure she's the only person who could pull that off... ever.

The moon is up, which means curfew is probably close, and Eveline will have to Floo away, and he'll have to return to the castle. He doesn't want to, though; this is officially the best night of his life. He totally doesn't deserve Eveline at all, he's concluded; she's so far out of his league that she's probably playing a different sport. But for some magical sort of reason (no pun intended), she likes him. He doesn't quite get it, but it's the case and it's amazing. "We should probably get back, but... I don't want to."

By the time he points out that they ought to get going, Eveline has almost managed to stop blushing at being told she looks beautiful. It shouldn’t make her blush, and she knows it. It’s a very silly thing to be blushing about. But she is, and it’s sweet. Arthur is sweet, and she wishes they didn’t have to leave.

“Me, either,” she admits. It’s getting darker by the minute, what with the clouds and the snow, but Eveline figures once the moon is a bit higher, the snow will just reflect the light. Plenty enough to see by, but they can’t be out that late. They’ll get in trouble, and she knows very well that Arthur is not at all interested in getting in trouble.

His hesitating at all says a lot about how much he wants to be here. To be with _her_. Which… frankly, still startles Eveline, much as she might never admit it. But at the same time, there are things about that weighing on her, and she’s quiet for a moment before starting, “Arthur…” and then trails off, as though she’s not quite sure where she’s going with it. Finally, she changes her mind, shaking it off mentally and smiling up at him, a bit sad because the night has to end, but mostly thrilled. “We ought to, though. I don’t want you in trouble because of me.”

"I don't mind detention," Arthur says, but he looks sad, too, for obvious reasons. They do have to go. He sighs, stepping back a little but keeping one arm around her so that their sides are still close together. "It's cold- I don't want you to be chilly," he admits. And this is so much better than giving her his coat, even if it would be gentlemanly. He doesn't actually want to get hypothermia and freeze his balls off.

After all, if Eveline doesn't come to her senses and dump his ass, he might actually need them at some point in the semi-near future... The thought makes him both ridiculously excited and completely terrified.

"Ladies first," he says politely, letting her lead off down the path, where there's only room for one person to walk. But as soon as it widens, outside of the trees, he's back up next to her again, his arm once again around her waist.

Eveline is sure she couldn’t _possibly_ be chilly, considering the night and all, but she doesn’t say a word of it to Arthur. That would be self-defeating, and it would certainly ruin her plans of subtly leaning her head on his shoulder a bit when they finally stop, back into Hogsmeade proper and outside of the building where Arthur normally leaves her to Floo back before he goes back to Hogwarts.

She never wants to go, come that time, but now that’s more true than ever. Obviously they couldn’t carry on with what they’d been doing near the Shrieking Shack in the middle of Hogsmeade, but that’s not the only reason. It’s just… well, Arthur. In general. Eveline is loathe to leave him.

Hence the maybe-a-bit-dramatic sigh when they do stop. But that does nicely mask her leaning her head on him. Well, mostly her head. Her earmuffs are sort of between them. “You’ve all sorts of work to get back to, I’m sure.”

Arthur flushes. "I'd much rather keep spending time with you," he says honestly (hopefully, too, he'll admit). But she frowns at him for that, and even if it's a mock-frown he lets her have her way. Even at fifteen, he supposes she has him trained. "All right. Good night, Eveline. Owl me this week?"

These are acceptable terms, apparently, because he gets a kiss on the cheek and promptly turns bright red. He could even say he's warm, at the moment, and be entirely honest about it, but she'd know exactly _why_ he's warm, and that would be just as embarrassing as blushing, so he doesn't bother with it. He just smiles and reluctantly moves his arm from around her waist.

He waits until the Three Broomsticks door closes behind her, since this is the closest he can get to seeing her to her door, for obvious reasons. Once she's inside, he ignores the two second year Slytherins snickering at him across the street at the post office, and turns to make his way back up to the castle.

He's nearly out of the village when he realizes he's dropped a glove, and turns back to cast a summoning charm on it, which naturally fails. But he can't afford to buy another pair, so he trudges back through the light snow to find it, hoping it's not already buried. He finds it just beyond the Three Broomsticks and sighs with relief, turning to go back to the castle, when ahead of him, a familiar figure exits the bar. It's... Eveline? Only now, she's carrying a bag she hadn't had before.

Confused and wondering if something could be wrong, maybe with the pub's Floo, he's about to call out to ther when he sees her step into the shadows next to the bar. She peers around, as though looking for someone, but doesn't look very hard, and then he hears someone mutter a charm. There's the sound of clothes rustling, and then a strange, quiet sort of squelching sound that he wouldn't have heard had it not been so quiet in the snow.

Less than a moment later, Arthur watches, dumbfounded, as someone other than Eveline strides out of the little alcove. Even if he'd wanted to (he doesn't), he wouldn't be able to move as he watches, frozen in place, as Eames glances around again, still not seeing Arthur behind his little half-wall, and hurries up towards the castle, tucking Eveline's earmuffs into the bag he'd been carrying.

Arthur stands out in the snow for a long time, too shocked to think about going back to the castle. He's late, actually, and gets points taken away. He barely notices, though, unable to think anything but, _... What the fuck?_

 _Just... what the_ fuck?!

Eames wanders into the Great Hall a bit late the Monday following that Hogsmeade trip, looking only mostly awake, and sits at the first acceptable seat he finds, between Royce and Amy, who both look a bit confused by his being so damn tired. But then again, they don’t know that he’d spent all day in Hogsmeade Saturday and then had practice Sunday and so had to finish his homework Sunday night.

Of course, he _might_ have done it Saturday night, or even Sunday morning, but… well. He didn’t. He happened to be in a fairly inexplicable good mood, and didn’t want homework to ruin it. And then when he tried to sleep the night before… well. Though most people who know him wouldn’t believe it, even Eames has a bit of a conscience, and sometimes it just won’t shut up. Which is very annoying at times.

So, little sleep, and late for breakfast, Eames is in very little mood to deal with Royce at all, but he’d glanced over at Yusuf and spotted him reading again, and Arthur and Ariadne are both there, and he’d have to _make_ space for himself to sit there, and last time he did that, Ariadne shin-kicked him for about three days before she forgave him for picking her up and moving her. Plus, Mal’s little hanger-on Hufflepuff is sitting over there, mooning over her, and every time Eames goes near him he interrogates Eames about her, wanting to know her favorite _colour_ , Quidditch team, if Eames could maybe put in a good word for him… it’s all very sweet, and horrifically annoying. Much as Eames is half looking forward to Mal bringing _him_ home to her parents and the Armageddon that will ensue, he doesn’t enjoy the mooning, or requests for a lock of her hair. What’s he supposed to do, walk up to her and yank a handful out? Has the bloke ever _met_ a female?

“What’da you look so pissy about?” Royce asks, elbowing Eames out of staring at his eggs. Eames shoots him a glare. Royce grins, and there are bits of toast in his teeth. Eames takes a moment to actively decide not to inform the other boy of this. “You were annoyingly cheerful this weekend.”

“Well,” Eames grumbles at him, tired and unwilling to admit that he spent too much time working on his homework and therefore didn’t get much sleep, “weekend’s over, mate.”

He's not any more cheerful by the time Yusuf joins him after breakfast, although it's a bit startling when, as Yusuf approaches, Arthur stops dead in the midst of the Entrance Hall, stares at Eames, and then with absolutely no expression on his face, turns and walks the other way. It's the opposite direction from Divination, which they all have together, and Yusuf doesn't realize that Arthur's not walking next to him for a second too long, nose buried in a magazine as he walks. But then he looks up, startled, and turns around to call after his friend. "Oy!"

Arthur disappears into the crowd without responding, and Yusuf shakes his head in bemusement, continuing on towards Eames. Ariadne has already headed in the direction of Potions- lucky first year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, having Snape first thing Monday morning.

"Eames." Yusuf closes his magazine when he reaches the other boy, looking uncharacteristically serious. "I need to talk to you."

For Yusuf, who is never late to a class, pulling Eames into an alcove at the foot of the winding staircase leading to the Divination classroom knowing that they'll be tardy is extremely strange. "So I did a little research this weekend. Should've gotten to it sooner, really, but I've been busy with that... special order, from Beauxbatons." Definitely not a specially-made batch of Amortentia for a lovely brunette he'd met over the summer holidays with his family in Aix. "It's related, though. You know Arthur's got a girlfriend, right? Cousin of Mal Miles, goes to Beauxbatons?"

Eames is suspiciously shifty-eyed, not making eye contact. Yusuf shoves his shoulder a little to get his attention. "Arthur's been in a terrible mood since Saturday night, when he got back. I thought something went wrong, so I asked Pauline about her. There's no one named Eveline at Beauxbatons." Eames is definitely shifty now. Yusuf's eyes narrow. "And I'm betting when that bloke from the Ministry's Hall of Records owls me back, he's going to tell me she doesn't exist at all. Mal Miles doesn't _have_ a cousin named Eveline."

He scowls, looming a bit over the other boy. He might not be broader anymore, but he's definitely still taller, and he's fucking pissed. Eames is his friend, Arthur is his friend, and he knows they've got issues to spare, but this isn't fair to Arthur. It's bloody _cruel_. "She _does_ have one named Vincent, though. Who just so _happens_ to be able to change what he looks like. The fuck are you _playing_ at, mate?!"

Eames actually cringes a bit at this last bit. He's not so much intimidated- growing up as the short kid had made the inverse happen, he tends not to be intimidated- but Yusuf isn't much for shouting. Or calling him out. Or rocking the boat at all, really. So when he's angry, it does carry a significant weight. And more, the guilt of all of it hits Eames like a ton of bricks, coming from an outside source that he can't block out, like his own conscience (he's getting quite good at totally disregarding his conscience, which he's not sure is better or worse than not having one at all).

Of course Yusuf found out. It was only a matter of time, really- Eames should have known, should have been prepared. But he's not, not at all, and so he has no idea how to respond. After all, there's really no excuse- at least, none that he can tell anyone. Not even Yusuf. He can't explain why he's been carrying on with this for two years, pretending to be a girl who doesn't exist and leading Arthur on in the process. It doesn't matter that he never meant for it to get this far, that he hadn't even started out with Arthur in mind at all. Eames knows it doesn't matter what he'd intended, because intentions don't mean anything. What he'd done does. And now Yusuf knows, and-- did he say Arthur's been in a terrible mood since Saturday?

Eames hardly has time to wonder (panic?) about that, because right now Arthur is nowhere to be seen and Yusuf looks about ready to hit him. Eames has no desire to get into a fight with Yusuf. He's fairly sure of himself, since his growth spurt over the summer, but he's not certain he'd be in top form against his mate, especially not when his mate is... well, right.

For once, Eames doesn't bother trying to deny or back out of it. There's no use, really, and Yusuf doesn't need him to affirm his suspicions. He's done for either way. Eames just winces, trying to defend himself as best he can. "It's- I'm not- I don't know- it's not what it looks like," he finishes lamely.

The look Yusuf sends him is somewhere between disbelieving and scathing. "Really? Because it looks like you've been turning into Eveline to lead Arthur on for a couple of years."

That gets a wince out of Eames, whose hair and eye colours have remained strangely and perfectly normal since Yusuf pulled him aside. "Okay, yeah, put that way." He pauses, obviously floundering. He could explain himself- at least as much as possible, since really there is no excusing what became of this- but frankly, he'd rather let Yusuf think he's a giant twat. That, though horrific, is the lesser of two evils. Two very evil evils. "I didn't mean- it didn't start out that way, it just... sort of... snowballed." And that is very indicative of how upset Eames is by all of this, because he is not given to admitting that he's out of his depth. Ever. "I don't know what to do. There's no way to get out of it."

Yusuf just stares at him, shaking his head slowly. "Why the hell should I help you when you're being a complete arse to my _other_ friend? Not to mention... Merlin, Eames. It's just weird. Weird enough that you just... turn into a girl, but Arthur really likes Eveline. _Really_ likes her. Er, you. And... Christ, you've told me you don't even mind him, really, for all that he's a prat half the time..."

By the time he trails off, Yusuf appears to be just as much at a loss as Eames, and he's come down from his high horse a bit, enough to see how upset Eames looks. Rightfully, he thinks, but... well. "I don't know, mate. Kindest thing to do would just be to make Eveline disappear, lose interest in Arthur, wouldn't it? You need to stop doing this. Have her dump him and then stop responding. Merlin, this sounds demented." He drags a hand over his face, and fights the urge to smack Eames upside the head.

"I just... I can't believe you." He shakes his head again.

“Yeah,” Eames says, all of the fight going out of him in a sigh. There’s really no use defending himself against that, and frankly, Eames is used to being told that he’s a selfish twat and worse, and more often than not ends up in exactly this same position: agreeing. This time, though, it’s Yusuf, and Eames doesn’t know why that bothers him so much, but it does. It bothers him that Yusuf is mad as hell about it, but more, it bothers him that Yusuf thinks it’s weird.

It _is_ weird. Eames knows just how weird it is. And he might always _seem_ quite sure of himself, but he’s only fifteen. This isn’t normal to him, either, and he doesn’t quite know what to do about any of it, and wouldn’t dare tell anyone because… well. Who _does_ that? Just because he _can_ turn into a girl doesn’t mean he _should_ , and he didn’t just give it a shot out of curiosity… he did that… for two years, and built up a whole… he doesn’t even know what he did. But Yusuf is right. It was demented.

Yusuf can’t believe him; Eames can, though. He is well acquainted with himself and the things he’ll do to get his way, even when he doesn’t quite know what his way is. Or the things he’ll do just for the hell of it. This… he doesn’t know what this was. He really doesn’t. But Yusuf is right, it has to end. “Yeah, I know,” he mutters, slumping, still quite unable to meet the other boy’s eyes. “You’re right. I’ll go write him. She’ll disappear.”

"Eames-" Yusuf says after a pause, his frown deepening, but the other boy is already turning to leave the alcove, heading out of the stairwell and away from the Divination classroom.

It's not until Yusuf pulls himself up the long, circular flights of stairs and through the trapdoor, not until he seats himself at one of the tables in the back (Trelawney's too busy with her crystal ball up in the front, her eyes closed and fingers wiggling, to notice his arrival or his tardiness at all) that he realizes that Arthur's not in Divination, either. His usual blue pouf is empty, and there's no teacup there, either.

 

 

Eames reenters the castle, to all appearances making for the dungeons, but he only makes it to the first-floor corridor before Arthur appears, stepping out from behind the statue of Hebold the Horrible. "Eames," he says, his voice carefully conversational and very even. Almost unnaturally so.

Startled, Eames slows, and then stops for a moment as Arthur suddenly shows up in front of him. Eames pauses to glance behind himself, in the direction of the Divination classroom, obviously having expected Arthur to have been there. He'd noticed Arthur wandering off in the wrong direction before, but he hadn't thought that the Gryffindor would skip class. After all, _he_ might skip class a bit more often than most students, but Arthur certainly doesn't.

To be truthful, despite all of the talk about Arthur, and the fact that he was thinking about Arthur right now and what he's planning as soon as he gets back to the dungeons, Eames hadn't really given much thought to where Arthur actually _was_. And, of course, despite all of the same, he can't say a bloody thing about it _to_ Arthur. Aside from being completely mental, it would be downright suicidal. So really, the only option is to get around Arthur and carry on.

Of course, why Arthur should not only be about right now, but stopping him in the corridor... should probably raise a red flag. But Eames is very distracted, and Arthur is the absolute last person he wants to see right now. Especially alone. Which they are. "Arthur," he replies carefully, glancing around. Yep. Alone. "You're... not in Divination."

"Astute," Arthur says quietly, his usual dryness not even there. In fact, aside from that word he's completely silent, just staring at Eames' face. He's not even sure what he's looking for there, really. Some sign that he's guilty, or maybe a hint of sociopathy, to be able to do all of that to Arthur without feeling anything.

Well, he looks like he feels miserable, actually. Arthur feels a bit vindicated by this.

He takes a few steps closer, putting him less than an arm's length from the other boy, and his jaw clenches. Eames doesn't back away, but even if he had, Arthur would have just followed, in order to do what he does next. Lightning-quick, especially fast for someone who's eschewed muggle dueling in favor of magical dueling for five years, he rears back and punches Eames in the jaw, hard. It sends him to the floor, actually, and _that_ makes Arthur feel vindictively satisfied.

"I saw you," he says quietly. "I went back for something I dropped and I saw you change back from her. I saw you with her fucking _earmuffs_." His voice is hoarse, choked-sounding suddenly, and he's abruptly all the more furious at Eames for making him feel like he's going to fucking _cry._ "All of it. 'S a fucking lie. She doesn't even _exist,_ , you were just fucking with my head for two _fucking years_ -"

Eames isn't arguing with him, and Arthur cuts himself off, aware that he sounds like he's about to cry. Nothing he can do about it now, though. And the worst part? The worst of all of it is that he's so upset that all he wants to do is write to Eveline, since she almost always makes him feel better. But she's not real. She doesn't exist. He'd only be writing to _Eames_ , because Eames has been screwing with him and pretending to be a girl and _kissing him_. He'd never kissed anyone at all before, never liked anyone like that, and now he knows it was all a lie.

Fuck Eames. Just fuck him. "Don't ever talk to me again." There's no threat, no more cursing. Just a hoarse command, and then Arthur turns on his heel, striding for the staircase. Once he reaches it, he starts to run, though, abandoning his pride. He's just going to lock himself in his dormitory and never come out again. That'll solve all his problems.

It takes Eames a long time to pick himself up off the floor after Arthur disappears. In fact, after a few minutes, he just lets his head fall back with a dull _thud_ and stares up at the ceiling, his jaw aching, and wonders distantly if this is better or worse than what he’d planned on doing. At least, he thinks, he won’t have to write anything now. Really, that had saved him a terrible chore, and Yusuf will get off his case about it. He should probably be grateful.

Except whatever it is he’s feeling, it is most certainly not grateful. He thought he’d felt awful before, when Yusuf had found him out, when he’d worried and wondered about how to tell Arthur, when he’d imagined writing Arthur a last letter as Eveline. That feeling, it turns out, was nothing compared to this. Eames isn’t well known for thinking things through entirely, at least not when it comes to worrying about the feelings of other people. He’s done some fairly terrible things in his tenure at Hogwarts, and he’s even felt bad about some of them. But he’s never felt this bad before in his life.

He hadn’t even argued with Arthur, hadn’t tried to defend himself. Hadn’t said any of the five million and seven things he’d thought of to say to him, all of the times over the past two years that Eames had tried to figure out how to tell Arthur. He had always meant to, but it had never seemed right, and somehow Eames knows that if Arthur or Yusuf hadn’t found out, it never would have been the right time. He was never going to end it, because he didn’t want to.

The God’s honest truth is that Eames didn’t want the whole masquerade to end. Because Eveline might not be, in the strictest sense, a real person… but she _was_ Eames. The only things that had been made up about her were her existence, her life story, and the fact that she was a girl. What Eames never wanted to admit, even to himself, was that nothing else had been pretend.

But he can never tell Arthur that. Even if Arthur hadn’t told him to stay away from him, Eames would. It’s over, he’s the worst twat imaginable, and a bloody fool on top of it. And now… he just has to live with it, and with what he’d done. Not only had he absolutely ruined any chance he might have had, but he’d seen Arthur. If he didn’t hate Eames before, he does now. No doubt about it. And Eames had broken the other boy’s heart on top of it, and all because he’s a silly prat and he thought he could get away with it for just a little while longer.

Eames lies there, in the middle of the corridor, wishing he could crawl into a hole and die, until Professor McGonagall walks into the hall and spots him. Even her indignant sputtering and the points she takes from Slytherin doesn’t do more than convince Eames that he ought to go lie down elsewhere. Distantly, he realizes that she’s given him detention for walking off in the wrong direction (the class he’s supposed to be in is not in the dungeons), but Eames really couldn’t care less. Honestly, she’s quite lucky he doesn’t tell her to piss off.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Needless to say, Arthur has a very bad spring that year. Well, a bad Christmas as well, but that's to be expected, as he doesn't actually celebrate Christmas, and the winter exams always fall right over Hanukkah. He's used to it by now, of course, after five years, but it still does sting, not to be able to go see his mum for the holiday.

This year, though, he's a bit preoccupied, and going to see her over hols, in her dim, taupe-and-white government-funded psychiatric ward on Christmas morning, brought by his social worker, doesn't do much to cheer his mood. She goes into one of her daydreams, zones out, and has to be led out by her nurse half an hour into the visit.

He doesn't even get to tell her about his grades being high again, much less about his... well. About what had happened.

The spring term doesn't exactly begin well. It's strange, and difficult, and weird for Eames not to talk to him at all, not even to harass him. But at the same time, Arthur's glad, because when he sees the other boy a hot, angry feeling takes up residence in the pit of his stomach, and he wants to punch someone again.

Yusuf is pissed at Eames for a long time, as well. Longer than Arthur had expected, even. Eventually, though, over the summer, Yusuf tells him via owl that they've started talking again, and that he hopes Arthur's not pissed over it.

He's not, but that's only because he's moved on to being pissed about other things. His mum, for example. She doesn't really wake up anymore. He spends the summer in yet another foster home, mowing lawns and cleaning cars for pocket money, as much as he can save to change over to sickles and knuts once he can get to Diagon Alley.

He has a lot of time to think, during those months of isolation from his friends, from the magical world entirely, really. He can't get away with any magic at all, thanks to the Restriction of Underage Wizardry. He'd be arrested straight off. So he's stuck as a muggle, essentially, reading in the news how the muggle world is once again falling apart, as it always seems to be, and reading about the AIDS epidemic in America, and the way non-heterosexual people have started to come out of the closet.

He has a lot to think about. About Eames, basically, and about how even after he'd punched the other bloke, there'd never been a punch line. No one had ever said a word; there hadn't been a single snicker. Eames had just looked down and away, whenever he and Arthur had been near each other. And he starts to wonder what the hell Eames had meant to get out of playing Eveline. What gain could he have had, if no one knew about it? No one but Mal Miles, that is, Dom's girlfriend, Arthur presumes she knew since Eveline was ostensibly her cousin.

So yeah, he does a lot of thinking. And the summer goes by slowly, as they always do.

He bids his mum goodbye and she doesn't even look over at him; that same day, on the same trip into London, he tugs his trunk (a new one, on wheels, thanks to his social security money) through the barrier into Platform 9 3/4.

It's about the same as last year, awkward silence between him and Eames, with Yusuf and Ariadne stuck in the middle of it all. They're never around both him and Eames at the same time now, only ever with one or the other. And Arthur feels bad, and... he also feels bad that Eames looks like shit, fucking miserable, really, not nearly his usual outrageous self. It might be ridiculous for that to piss Arthur off, considering this is Eames' fault, this mess, what he did. But that doesn't mean he has to like it, and he thinks he's getting tired of being pissed.

When Eames doesn't send a Bludger at him in the first Quidditch match of the season, a move that cost the Slytherins the game, despite the fact that his team had won, Arthur is... displeased. Displeased enough that he waits until the rest of both teams have left the boy's locker room, until he knows it's just Eames in there, obviously avoiding the rest of his team, who are all pretty damned pissed. And when they're finally alone, he stalks over, not touching the other boy, and scowls.

"You should've gone for me with that Bludger," he says flatly. "You cost your team the game. I can take a hit." And maybe this isn't exactly how Arthur pictured this conversation starting, but he doesn't know another way to go about it.

Beyond startled and well on into nervous, now, Eames eyes Arthur warily for a moment, and then eschewing subtlety, glances around. He’s not sure if he’s looking around to be certain Arthur is speaking to _him_ , or to see if Arthur’s brought backup with him, but either way they are the only ones left in the locker room, and Eames has no idea why Arthur looks so very angry that he _hadn’t_ hit him with a Bludger.

No, really, he hasn’t even gotten to the confusion about that, yet. Arthur hasn’t spoken to him in a year. Arthur hasn’t _looked_ at him in a year without the sort of look on his face that made Eames wonder if he should fear for his life. Arthur hates him in a very clear and obvious sort of manner that Eames is pretty sure he can _feel_ , every time the other boy is nearby. Which isn’t often.

So to say that Arthur speaking to him is a bit of a shock would be a vast understatement. Eames wonders for a moment if this is some sort of trap. Didn’t Arthur tell him never to speak to him again? Should he respond? Eames spends a moment looking around almost frantically, clearly at a loss as to what the appropriate reaction could possibly be. He really doesn’t want to be punched again. He’s already having a shite day.

“Uh,” he starts, feeling monumentally stupid. It is, unfortunately, not a terribly uncommon feeling. Just one that he’s normally much better at ignoring or hiding. “Sorry?” he tries, obviously not understanding what’s going on, why Arthur is suddenly so angry about this thing in particular that it would drive him to speak to him; he would rather have been hit with the Bludger and Gryffindor have possibly lost?

This doesn’t improve Arthur’s scowl, though, although Eames hasn’t seen any expression on Arthur’s face less angry or upset than a scowl in a year, he’s still certain that was not the appropriate response. He flounders a bit, then tries, “I’m not sure I know how to hold a conversation and not talk to you at once.”

Reminded of their last encounter, now, Arthur's scowl fades a little, although the little furrows don't leave his forehead. "Yeah... look, I'm not sorry I punched you. I was pissed, and fucked up, and... yeah. It was twisted, what you did, but... you never told Royce or any of those morons, so I'm fairly certain it wasn't to fuck with me, why you did it, even if I don't _know_ why."

He's silent, waiting for an explanation to hopefully follow that, but he'd figured it'd be a long shot, and when Eames just stares at him some more, he sighs a little. "Yeah, okay, so. You don't have to avoid Yusuf just 'cause I'm about, or... not talk to me, but only if you want to, you don't have to, or... or... give me special fucking treatment on the pitch, okay, not all right."

His sneaker scuffs against the stone floor, and he looks away, staring determinedly at the locker compartments on the other side of the aisle. "'S actually really boring, at the dinner table, when you're off with your House... All Yusuf and Ariadne do is study, mostly, or talk about studying, and Dom goes on about Mal's perfect nostril hairs and shite." And Arthur had had a horrible summer, and despite what had happened the Christmas before... fuck, he'd actually missed Eames. He can admit it. He'd missed Eames, and he'd _really_ missed Eveline, and if they're the same person... Well, he just has to know if they are. He can't come right out and ask, but he has to find out, somehow.

But this is about the extent to which he's going to manage this conversation. He pauses, and then nods awkwardly to the other boy- who's still staring silently at him- and turns, grabbing his broom and leaving the locker room.

Left behind, Eames spends a minute or two staring in the direction of the door, trying to figure out what had just happened. He doesn't have to not talk to Arthur? It's boring without him? Normally, these would be amazingly good, cheering signs, because it sounds like Arthur doesn't hate him so much anymore. Except this isn't normal, and Arthur has been ignoring him at very best for a year. Eames has only recently (as such things go) gotten back on terms with Yusuf. Things are absolutely _not_ normal. And so Eames is left trying to figure out what the bloody hell is going on.

He doesn't figure it out, though, in the time spent standing there, staring. So he finishes up, showering and then dressing alone before carrying his things back into the castle, where he avoids the dungeons for fear of ambush by angry House-mates wanting revenge for the lost match. He ends up in the bowels of the library, hidden there alone, where no one will think to look for him. He tries to study, but instead ends up thinking about Arthur, and what he'd said.

Eames would fear that this is a trap, revenge of some sort, except he knows Arthur's not like that. If Arthur wanted revenge, he'd have had it already, and in a straightforward sort of way. Eames, maybe, would go about revenge in a long, drawn-out manner, would be a sneaky bastard about it. But Arthur wouldn't. So that means that he was serious. Which makes it even more confusing.

And somehow worse, Eames decides, when he finally sneaks back into his dormitory and climbs into his bed (once he's checked it for booby traps), because as horrific as the last year or so has been, at least he'd understood where he stood with Arthur: just about nowhere. Now he's confused again, and he knows very well how _that_ ended up before. Eames is many things, but he's not stupid. He's not about to repeat his mistakes. Just because Arthur's given him permission to speak to him again... or something, doesn't mean that he ought to. Not only is he nowhere near brave enough to give that a go without working himself up to it, he really just... doesn't need to set himself up for that again.

Arthur had clearly wanted to know why he'd done what he'd done. That explains it, then; he just wants an explanation. Closure of some sort. Of course, Eames isn't about to give it to him, so that settles that. He'll just keep up what he's been doing, with perhaps a bit less avoidance of Yusuf and a bit less hesitating about Bludgers, and maybe eventually he'll stop feeling like such a giant twat all the time and things can go back to normal. As he reminds himself daily, life goes on, and he is getting very, very tired of moping about and giving a shit about whether or not it seems like everyone hates him. That never bothered him before. He just has to get over this and move on, and maybe now that it seems like Arthur is moving on at least enough to talk to him without murder in his eyes... maybe he actually can, too.

Over the next couple of weeks, Arthur waits patiently, thinking... well, Eames will say something to him at some point. Eventually. Right? He can't just go up and accost the other boy again, to try to talk to him; just because he's moved on from being angry doesn't mean Eames is... not upset. And if Arthur's suspicions-slash-hopes about Eveline not being completely a lie are actually true, then... he'd probably hurt Eames a lot, as well, and so pushing this is a bad idea.

Without all the anger, it's much easier to think about it. And frankly, directing his anger at Eames for all of this isn't fair. It's not Eames' fault that Arthur doesn't really have anyone besides his small group of friends at Hogwarts. It had hurt a metric fuckton, when he'd realized that Eveline hadn't actually been real, when he'd thought immediately that Eames had been fucking with him, that maybe he'd evolved into actually screwing with Arthur instead of just his normal harassment. But the worst part had been the realization that he'd come to care about someone, only to find out they didn't exist. He's been alone for most of his life, that way. That had been the worst thing he'd ever felt... well, until his mum, this summer.

So he might have enough to be angry about, but that's not Eames' fault, at least, and Arthur's past directing that anger at the other boy.

It remains to be seen if Eames will ever warm up to Arthur again.

Several weeks pass, and nothing changes; Eames still doesn't talk to Arthur, barely even looks at him as far as Arthur can tell, and he's pretty sure that if he'd been right about Eveline/Eames, whatever had been there likely isn't any longer. He's not sure what to do at all, now. The only option he has seems to be Yusuf, but Yusuf has refused to act as go-between any longer, and won't put up with what he calls their ridiculousness.

In all fairness, Arthur has stopped avoiding Eames' company; it's only that if he goes to sit down with them at dinner, Eames still scampers. Well, not so much scampers as looks away and gets up to leave. But he's pretty much given up, by now. There doesn't seem to be any use in wondering, since Eames apparently has no interest in talking to him.

He's heading into the Restricted Section late on a Saturday night, not really feeling like joining in the raucous party that's sprung up in the Gryffindor common room and meaning to get a start on the twenty-inch monster of an essay McGonagall had assigned them when he runs into Eames alone, for the first time since the night of the last match.

The other boy is sitting with several of the books Arthur had been looking for spread out on a table around him; he looks up, and Arthur expects he'll probably leave, now that Arthur has arrived. So, being proactive, he backs up, shaking his head slightly. "Sorry, didn't mean to disturb you." He'll just use the books later; Eames had been there first, he shouldn't have to leave. Arthur will go, and does in fact turn, walking quickly out of the Restricted Section and into the main part of the library.

He ends up ensconced at a table on the far wall, next to a window, with a book about the history of the Ministry, burying his nose in it as best he can, but time drags by ridiculously, and he sighs, pillowing his head on his arms and closing his eyes. Not the best way to spend a Saturday night, and all he can seem to think about is the fact that Eames is _right over there_ , just on the other side of a wall, but he might as well be on Mars for all that he can stand to be in the same room as Arthur.

It's there Eames finds Arthur, a while later. He pauses, uncertain, when he spots Arthur's head down; he'd wanted to tell him he's finished with the books, that he's left them on the table in the Restricted Section (can't take them out without awful screeching), but he doesn't want to bother Arthur if he's sleeping. Not the least reason being that he'd rather not wake him and end up cursed for it. But at the same time, Eames doubts Arthur wants to spend the night sleeping in the library (although that sort of thing does happen to students), and he'd obviously wanted the books Eames had been using.

Really, he should just leave. Maybe leave a note saying he's finished. He's gotten quite good at avoiding Arthur by now. It would be a bit self-defeating to go waking him up in the library, alone.

Then again, he's quite good at being self-defeating. "Arthur," Eames tries, quietly, and very ready to dodge curses. The table is between them, and Eames isn't right across from him, so he should be safe from physical violence, unless of course Arthur is given to leaping across tables when woken. Naturally, Arthur doesn't respond to Eames' near-whisper, so he tries a bit louder. "Arthur."

Arthur wakes more quickly than he would have, had he been in a bed; he's never been a morning person, to say the very, very least, and it usually takes both tea and espresso to get him going before class, but this is just a nap. After Eames says his name a second time, he snaps away, not having meant to doze off at all.

He blinks up at Eames, puzzled and trying to remember why he'd thought sleeping in the library would be a good idea. Also, Eames is talking to him, and that's... odd.

But if it means Eames is going to speak to him, maybe his impromptu nap had been a good thing. "Eames. All right?" he manages after a pause, clearly uncertain.

About as uncertain as Arthur now that he's woken, Eames nods, wishing he'd thought of something clever to say. He always has something clever to say. Except when speaking to Arthur, at least anymore. The last time they spoke, he barely said anything (mostly for fear of being hit, along with not a little shock), and before that... well. He pauses, awkward, for a moment before remembering that he _did_ have something to say, even if it isn't particularly clever.

"I left the books I'd been using on the table in the Restricted Section," he explains, then pauses again before adding, "In case you wanted them." For Transfiguration, Eames can only assume, the same reason he was in there. But then again, maybe Arthur just wanted a nap.

"Oh," Arthur says, mentally berating himself for sounding like an idiot. "Er, thanks." Well, that is why he'd come to the library in the first place. But now he has no idea what else to say to Eames, is barely just awake and can't think of any words at all, not in any semblance of order or even on their own. He's drawing a black, and after a moment, Eames starts to leave.

He gets halfway across the library before Arthur's brain wakes up enough to regain its power of higher thinking, and he jumps up out of his seat, hurrying after the other boy. There's no one else there, and Madam Pince is in her office, so they don't have an audience, and he whisper-yells, "Wait!"

Eames does, turning and looking startled, and Arthur skids to a stop a table's length away, feeling himself beginning to turn red because he has nothing to follow that up with.

"I..." Yeah, he's officially a moron. "I just..." Dense. He doesn't think he could sound, or be, any more so. He has no idea what to say, and finally he gives up. "Never mind, sorry."

He turns away, still red and now quite miserable, heading in the direction of his bag, to collect it and move to the Restricted Section.

If Eames hadn't spent two years (on and off) posing as Eveline, he might not have recognized Arthur turning totally red. But he had- that's what caused all of this to begin with- and so he recognizes that reaction. Of course, Arthur turns red when he's angry or embarrassed, but why he should be embarrassed right now, when it's just Eames, Eames doesn't know. He doesn't know that any more than he knows why Arthur had just chased after him and called for him to wait.

For a moment, Eames had been _absolutely_ convinced that he was about to be attacked. But when he'd turned around, Arthur had just been... standing there, staring at him, like he didn't quite know what to say or why he'd come after Eames in the first place. Eames is somewhere between gaping and staring, at an absolute loss.

He has no idea what Arthur wants. It's driving him absolutely mad. He's normally so good at reading people, at understanding them, an obviously he did a fairly good job at all of it before, when he'd been... well, when he'd been Eveline. But now he just... doesn't know. Yes, Arthur had told him it was all right to talk to him again, but... after a year... and the two years before that... Eames had just assumed he was only being nice, really. He doesn't want to rock the boat. Beyond Eames not wanting to put himself in a position from which he could end up sabotaging himself, he doesn’t want to do anything more to piss Arthur off. He’s had quite enough of that for a lifetime, thank you.

So he’d assumed Arthur was just trying to be forgiving, move on, or something. Eames doesn’t know, because he rarely bothers to move on from things that anger him. But other people do, and Eames had assumed… well, just because Arthur had said that it was all right to speak to him doesn’t mean that he particularly _wants_ him to. Or so he’d assumed. Maybe that’s pessimistic, but Eames doesn’t want to get any sort of hopes up about ever being even remotely friendly with Arthur. Arthur didn’t much like him _before_ he found out about Eveline. He hasn’t changed since then; he’s just kept to himself, away from Arthur.

But now Arthur is coming after him in the library, and turning red for no reason. Eames doesn’t have the slightest idea what _that_ could mean. He’s beyond confused, frankly, and has been since Arthur had spoken to him in the locker room. (Better confused than hopeful.) So he stares at Arthur’s retreating back, trying to figure out what he’s supposed to be doing that he’s not. He’d done what Arthur had asked. He hasn’t been trying to earn forgiveness, because, well, like that’s possible. But he’s been doing his best to keep from making things _worse_. It looks right now like he’s failing miserably. He’s not blind. Things have been different since Arthur spoke to him.

“Arthur,” he tries after a moment, hesitant, but too confused to keep from asking. “Is there something I’m supposed to be doing that I’m not? I know you said I didn’t have to avoid you, but I just figured… you were always annoyed with me before anyway, least I could do is let you be…” he shrugs, at a loss. “Dunno. Just… sorry. Never mind.”

Arthur stares at him, not sure of how to respond beyond startlement. "But..." He swallows, looks down and rubs the back of his neck. "I thought... you might've been pissed at me, as well. For... punching you, and... every time I saw you, you left, and you never talked to me, I assumed you didn't want anything to do with me. Because of... me finding out what you were doing, and..."

He risks a glance up, his eyes still wide and more than a little confused. It's at least reassuring to see that Eames looks to be feeling the same way... "I actually did... want you to talk to me. It... it's weird, and it sucks, and... and I miss talking to you, even if I didn't know it was you, okay? I don't even know if that _was_ really you, or if it was you playing a role, or... or what."

Eames’ eyes widen from the mostly shocked expression he’d been wearing since Arthur had said he’d thought Eames was pissed at _him_ , and he stares, more than a little disbelieving. He’s moved beyond shock at that horrifically wrong idea, because Arthur had then gone on to announce that he _misses_ him. Even if he really means Eveline. And suddenly, Eames is both more confused and totally understands. And, worse, feels a bit like he’s been punched in the gut. That would be guilt. He’s very used to guilt by now.

Arthur misses Eveline. Eames supposes… well, that makes perfect sense. They’d been friends, and then dating, for two years. Even if it wasn’t real… that doesn’t invalidate all of that. Eames knows Arthur liked her. He knows very well, because he _was_ her.

But that… he just can’t say that sort of thing to Arthur. Can he? He doesn’t know what Arthur would think… he supposes it really couldn’t get any worse, Arthur’s opinion of him, but this could be a trap, or Arthur could tell someone… Eames… doesn’t know. It doesn’t seem that way. It seems like Arthur just wants to know… like he’d thought before, when Arthur had cornered him in the locker room, Arthur just wants to know why he’d done it.

Eames wishes it was a simple answer, that he could just explain himself and be done with it. But it’s not. It’s weird, and it’s convoluted, and it is _not_ something you discuss with someone else, especially not the bloke you pulled one over on for two years. Even if you really want to tell him. Even if it seems like it would make things better, or at least… explain things a bit… then Eames goes from being a bastard of epic proportions, fucking with Arthur for the fun of it, to a pathetic, sick fuck who turned into a girl because he could and then ended up wishing he could have that life- and Arthur with it- instead.

But then again, isn’t that selfish of him, to want to protect what little dignity he has left by keeping that to himself? Would it help Arthur to know the truth? As much of the truth as Eames can figure out in his own confused brain? He couldn’t bring himself to tell Arthur the truth before, in time… but maybe this time, he ought to. If Arthur will ever believe a word he says again.

Looking oddly defeated, Eames shakes his head, then looks down at the floor to Arthur’s left. “No role. It was just me,” he says quietly, abandoning his pride. “But a girl.”

He swallows, trying to say more, to explain- but he can’t. For once in his life, Eames is finding it very difficult to speak, and so finally just gives up, shaking his head. “I’m not pissed, all right? You had every right... I deserved what I got. Worse than, really. I just—I’ve got to go.” And then, because he is very good at it, Eames promptly flees.

Arthur watches him go, and doesn't move for a good few minutes, too busy re-thinking those words, over and over. Just Eames, but a girl. Just Eames... but a girl. Eames... a girl, but still Eames, and...

He lets out a long breath in what feels overwhelmingly like relief, sinking down onto the nearest chair. He'd wondered, and suspected, and maybe hoped, whether for this or not he's not sure. But now he knows, for good or ill, and... he doesn't quite know what to do with that knowledge, but... it _is_ a relief. It's a relief, because it means that Eveline _is_ real. She's just... actually Eames. And maybe it means that Eames isn't as fucking annoying as Arthur had assumed him to be all these years, out of self-defense, likely, even if he's had a few hints otherwise. Not maybe. He's pretty sure he _was_ wrong.

And he realizes, sitting there, that... he wants it back. Eames, Eveline, girl, boy, whoever, whatever. The name doesn't matter. He'd told Eveline... told _Eames_ things he'd never told anyone before. Trusted her... then hurt him. The same person. When he'd punched Eames, he'd also been punching Eveline, because they're the same, one person.

He has no idea how to go about this, though, that's for sure. No clue in hell. The wizarding world is much less forgiving or even accepting of non-heterosexual couples than the muggle world, and the muggle world isn't very accepting at all. He doesn't even know what it would be like, to kiss another bloke. He has no experience to go on at all, has kissed one person in his life. But on the plus side, that person had been Eames, so he supposes he has a good record to go by.

Well, he has to do something. He just has no idea what.

Thankfully for Eames' already poor attendance record, the next day is Sunday. Which means when he determines that he is not going anywhere all day, he's not likely to get in trouble for it. Of course, it's still noticeable, because he doesn't bother to go to breakfast or lunch, but aside from Royce throwing something at him in the morning when he pretends to be sleeping for too long, no one bothers him until Amy sticks her head in the door to the sixth-year boys' room and asks if he's dying, and if he is, would he mind willing her his broom?

Eames does not mind, promises that she can have it if he shuffles off, and she wanders off, satisfied that he is not dead yet. Of course, by this point Eames is hungry as all hell, but... well. He'll sneak off to the kitchens later. Maybe while everyone's at dinner. No one would expect someone to sneak into the kitchens then.

He's not sure who he's avoiding, really- if it's just Arthur, but then, this is fairly extreme avoidance, even for him, because he's _been_ avoiding Arthur. Maybe everyone. Eames doesn't know or care, really. He just doesn't want to see or talk to anyone, and if that means hiding and being dramatic about it, well, fine. Besides, he'll have to go to classes eventually, so he really only has today to keep to himself. Tomorrow he is going to have to drag himself to classes and force himself to start behaving normally again, or he won't have any friends left by the end of this year. They're all tired of him moping and behaving much too seriously for comfort. They're not going to let that go on for much longer before they just stop dealing with him altogether, and then he'll be lonely and friendless on top of miserable, and Eames is much too social to be friendless. Plus, that makes it very difficult to sell smuggled firewhiskey. Which, come to think of it, he still has some from last year in his trunk...

Arthur heads into the kitchens for a late dinner a few hours later; he'd gone to dinner, briefly, but he hadn't eaten much, has been entirely distracted since the day before, and he's spent most of his time either flying around the pitch or working on his essay, since the majority of the older students in Gryffindor House are hungover today, and he'd eschewed the party the night before in favor of more brooding. Also some fretting.

He doesn't expect to find Eames in the kitchens, though, after not having seen him all day or at dinner. He _really_ doesn't expect to find Eames sitting at one of the tables with several of the Hogwarts house elves in their 'H' pillowcases, drinking firewhiskey. But... there they are.

Eames looks startled when he walks in; Arthur blinks at him for a moment before taking the pasty one of the non-drinking elves offers him, thanking her. He wanders slowly over to Eames' table, well aware that the last time they'd spoken, Eames had run away. And even if Arthur has something of a game plan, now (after a great deal of thought, well into the night the evening before), it remains to be seen if even his Gryffindor courage will be enough to help him put it into action.

"Spare some?" he asks hesitantly. After a pause, Eames hands him the bottle, and he takes a long swig, wishing he knew Eames' tells in terms of level of intoxication. Most of his foster parents have obvious ones, and he'd always had to learn them fast. But he doesn't know Eames well enough at all.

He hands the bottle back. "Thanks."

"No problem," Eames manages to say without mumbling. Naturally, the day he decides to avoid everyone, he'd run into Arthur. It's like the world is conspiring against him. Of course, Arthur wandering over and asking for some firewhiskey is probably a good sign that he doesn't want to punch him, but then again, he could very well have gone from overwhelming hate right on into pity. Eames is not really interested in pity. Actually, that might be worse. Eames eyes the door as subtly as possible, wondering if it would be more or less dramatic to just make a break for it, or if he should come up with an excuse. Excuses are slow in coming, right now, unfortunately.

But, well, there is enough for everyone here, due to the fact that the elves don't really drink an awful lot. They're quite small, so their portions are proportionate. They're using shot glasses, but not in the same manner a wizard would; they've been sipping at it. Eames spots an empty one and goes to refill it for the elf, who is looking a bit unsteady. "There you go, mate. Hell of a constitution, that's his fourth glass."

"It's my half-day off!" the elf announces cheerfully to Arthur (and whoever else might be listening), immediately raising his glass and joining right back in on the fun.

Arthur is having a very hard time holding in his grin, now- despite his nervousness at talking to Eames again, this is really amusing. And amazing, a bit. He nods appreciatively at the elf. "Well done, mate. Enjoy yourself."

He gets an impressive burp in response, and a giggle, and he can't help but chuckle. The house elves at Hogwarts are peculiar creatures, but are treated very well, from what he can tell about the house elf... well, virtual enslavement. It had bothered him a great deal at first, still does, really, and it's so weird that none of the students born into wizarding families are concerned with it. But the elves at Hogwarts at least are quite happy, and that's reassuring.

And they get half-days off, apparently. He slides in next to this particular elf, taking a small bite of his vegetable pasty and appreciating how delicious it is. He will never _stop_ appreciating the food at Hogwarts, not when he survives on pop-tarts and macaroni and cheese over the summers. Sometimes cereal.

After a pause, Eames offers him the bottle again. He takes it and pours himself a shot into a glass, handing the bottle back. "To.. er, what's your name?"

The elf burps, "Rumpy, sir."

"Ah, right. To Rumpy. May you not suffer from a horrible hangover tomorrow like most of Gryffindor, today." He lifts the glass, and the elves all clink against it, giggling. After a pause, Eames does as well, and Arthur looks over at him, risks a very small and rather shy smile.

"And... may sixth year go a bit better than last term did, with no more misunderstandings." His glass is still raised, tentatively held in Eames' direction. "Cheers?"

Even though that is a rather obviously good sentiment, Eames looks a bit uncertain about it. He's absolutely certain, suddenly, that he's been drinking more than he thought he had, or more than he ought to have, because he'd swear Arthur just smiled at him a bit. Except Arthur doesn't smile. Arthur has never smiled at him. Even when they were eleven, that first day on the train, Arthur didn't really smile at him. Smiles he's received as Eveline don't count (as he tells himself firmly), so that can't have possibly just happened. Obviously Rumpy is not the only one drinking a bit too much, or likely to be hungover as hell tomorrow.

So that probably explains why Eames stares, rather stupidly, at Arthur for several moments too long before snapping out of it and nodding. He doesn't have a glass, so he just raises the bottle to that toast. Rumpy's health, and, uh, sixth year not including moments of supreme idiocy and general prat-ness as per the year before. On the bright side, Eames doesn't know how he could manage something so horrifically stupid again, so that's looking in his favor, this year.

He tries not to be hopeful, and is mostly successful, because he has had a little too much to drink for that to sink in properly, past the maybe-smile that he'd just caught on Arthur's face, which really caught Eames off guard. Mainly, Eames seems to have reached that point where he is perfectly aware that he's miserable and why that would be so, but just doesn't care. "Cheers, definitely," Eames agrees, doing his very best not to finish off the rest of the bottle in one go, because that's the last of his stash until he works himself up to going out again.

Arthur throws his back, like he had the swallow a moment ago, enjoying the burn down his throat and then the crackling feeling of there actually being a magical fire in his belly. He assumes there isn't actually one there, but with magic, he supposes you never know. It's not his main concern at the moment, as he watches Eames' throat work, swallowing the whiskey from the bottle nearly upended over his mouth.

It's an... interesting... sight. Arthur swallows hard, looking over to the fireplace and trying not to let his thoughts be visible on his face.

"Have you, um... have you thought about what you'll do after school?" he tries, casting about for something to talk about. "I mean... you'd make an excellent Unspeakable. A wicked spy. Or... you know. An actor. You _were_ a girl. Not that I mean that to be offensive, it was just... very real." Too late, he realizes that this is a bad subject to touch on, but what else do he and Eames have to talk about, these days?

The question slips out before he can stop it. "Did you really fancy me?" Immediately he turns beet red, glancing up at Eames and then away again. The alcohol must have hit him faster than he'd expected it would; the equivalent of two shots wouldn't normally turn him into a moron.

Eames doesn't get around to answering before Arthur asks that question, and Eames forgets all about trying to decide if he should be flattered or amused by that assessment of his ability to accurately portray a girl, forgets about trying not to be ridiculously pleased to hear Arthur say he would make a wicked spy. That last question drives all other thoughts and topics right out of his head, and Eames promptly forgoes the bottle to stare over at Arthur.

That... well, he supposes shouldn't surprise him. After all, this is just another step in the questions about what the hell his reasoning was for what he'd done. Eames supposes it's a logical question, after he'd told Arthur that Eveline was really just him as a girl. They'd dated. So naturally, one would wonder if that means he had fancied Arthur. It does certainly explain everything very neatly. Which makes sense, because it's the truth. Eames can admit that much to himself.

Of course, whether or not he can admit it to _Arthur_ is another matter entirely. No one, literally no one in the wizarding world has ever once discussed the _concept_ of liking another bloke with him. He and Mal had danced around it as only two pureblood Slytherins can, yes. His father had gone off about it once, luckily not in reference to Eames. He'd heard from a half-blood friend in Hufflepuff about the diseases muggles were getting in America, and apparently how it's because men there are buggering other men. But that's about it. Eames has done his research by himself, and never once brought any attention to the idea, even among friends. Maybe _especially_ among friends.

So even if Arthur doesn't look like he's going to be disgusted or pity him about it... it's still an awful spot to be put in. To confirm Arthur's suspicions and be found out over it would be social suicide. At very best. It could end in much worse. Eames knows it could be worse. He was young, but alive, when the Death Eaters were still about. Violence is never far from the surface in the wizarding world, even these days. Arthur knows that; he puts up with it all the time, as a muggleborn. Even surrounded as he is by the "accepting" Gryffindor champions, he's never free of it.

Really, it's almost cruel, to ask aloud. Because normally, Eames would disregard the question or answer in the negative even though it would be a lie. But he's still so damned guilty... he doesn't feel he has the right to deny answers to Arthur. Which is probably why he looks more miserable than anything, almost physically pained, which is a good way to hide the fact that he feels absolutely cornered. They're not even _alone._ Rumpy's right there, drinking away, and all the other elves, half of whom Eames couldn't even name there are so many about. Eames glances in Rumpy's oblivious direction before looking back at Arthur, absolutely sure the other boy is trying to kill him. "Arthur," he says slowly, serious tone making him sound less drunk than he's sure he actually is, "why does it matter now?"

Still bright red, Arthur glances up and sees Eames staring at him, notes how sober the other boy appears, suddenly. And he realizes that it _doesn't_ matter now, does it? Even if... well, even if Eames _had_ fancied Arthur, he would probably never admit it. Hence, Eveline. And that's over and done with, and people aren't gay, not in the wizarding world, not that any of them would ever admit to, anyway.

And even if they are, even if maybe Eames did fancy Arthur the way Arthur's fairly certain he has fancied Eames for quite some time, even if he wouldn't let himself admit it because the other boy drove him batshit mad, he likely doesn't anymore. And by asking, Arthur's probably offended him, and has done so in front of witnesses, albeit rather drunk ones, so the friendship thing he'd be more or less happy to settle for (rather less than more, but he would if it was all he could get, is the important thing) is probably no longer an option.

Maybe he's just being a coward. He doesn't know. But he looks back down at the table, shrugging slightly. "I suppose... it doesn't." He sets his glass back down on the table, standing. "Thanks for the drinks."

He's nearly to the portrait hole when he turns around, looking back. Eames is watching him; Arthur had known he would be. "I wish you'd said something, although I get why you couldn't... and I was pretty much an asshole." Eames would have had no reason whatsoever to think he wouldn't be killed for telling him. Or attacked. Or whatever the standard response is for wizards who fancy their male acquaintances. He pauses. "I'm sorry, for that."

If he'd known Eames could be like Eveline was, as in not constantly harassing him and generally just making a ruckus, he probably wouldn't have spent so much time being frustrated and angry at his behavior. But then, if he hadn't let himself get so angry all the time, maybe he would have realized that Eames isn't a complete jerk. It's both their faults. But it's not a discussion they should be having, definitely not now at least, and so he leaves.

Or rather scampers. He's not good at these feelings... things. In fact, he's pretty sure he's quite bad with them.

Left behind, Eames stares until Arthur is long gone, not nearly sober enough to realize that he should probably stop him, that Arthur had looked something approaching crestfallen, just then. At least not in time. Arthur is long gone by the time Eames gets around to asking the room full of house elves, “The hell does he wish I said something?” What would that have accomplished?

Of course, Arthur can’t answer, being gone. But Rumpy responds by falling off of his stool. And then cackling.

Eames runs out of firewhiskey after he props Rumpy up in the chair he’d been sitting in, certain that the elf needs more than a stool to stay upright. Of course, he hadn’t counted on Rumpy telling him where he can find some more stuff; the far left cabinet against the wall has quite a store of liquors. Eames stares at it for a good thirty seconds before one of the more-sober elves assures him that it will be moved by tomorrow, for his own good. But, as he and Rumpy are having a bit of a party, Eames is allowed at it tonight.

She sounds sympathetic, that house elf. Like she thinks there’s a _reason_ he might be drinking. Eames eyes her for a moment, almost suspicious, but then forgets all about it in favor of tequila.

It isn’t until three hours and one passed-out Rumpy (and a giggling Sammi, who Eames has been trying to hook up with Rumpy for like two whole hours) later that Eames wonders how the hell he’s getting past Snape and back to his dormitory like this.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next morning, it's clear that he hasn't found a way, because when he stumbles into Charms on Monday morning, halfway through the class, Flitwick pauses in his example of the Patronus Charm in order to peer sternly over his spectacles at him. "Please take your seat, Mr. Eames, with ten points from Slytherin."

Eames looks like he barely notices what Flitwick says to him; Arthur watches as the other boy slumps across the classroom to take a seat near the back, not paying attention as Flitwick continues with his explanation of how the charm works against Dementors. Eames looks barely put together enough to be considered dressed appropriately; it doesn't look like there's a sweater underneath his robes, only a loosely-tucked white shirt and a loosened tie. His trousers have dust on the knee, and his hair doesn't look like it's been combed since before the weekend.

This isn't an abnormal style of dress for boys their age, of course, but Eames usually makes an effort to look nearly unkempt in a somehow ridiculously cool (and attractive, Arthur will admit) way. He doesn't usually look like he's slept under a table in the kitchens and was woken up by banging pots with an enormous hangover, but Arthur suspects that may have been the case the night before.

Not that it's his business. He supposes they've said all there is to say. Eames lifts his head, and when it seems like he might be looking over in Arthur's direction, Arthur looks away quickly, promtly fumbling for his quill and dropping it. His chair, of course, makes a huge squeaking noise as he shifts it so he can pick up his quill, still not in the habit of using his wand for every little thing, since he can't do so three months out of every year.

The entire class is staring at him by the time he sits up, of course, and Flitwick clears his throat. "Ah, Mr. Kaufman, thank you for volunteering. Come up here and assist me."

Looking slightly dubious, Arthur walks around the desks and to the center of the room as Flitwick raises his wand, intoning, " _Expecto Patronum._ "

A shapeless silver mist shoots from the tip of his wand, coalescing into a vaguely four-footed shape that dissipates a moment later. But while it's there, it's a brighter light even than the sun coming through the windows. He lowers his wand, looking pleased, and gestures to Arthur. "Remember. A very happy memory, Mr. Kaufman. The happiest you can recall."

Naturally, Arthur's mind blanks. And then, of course, pops up his last date with Eveline. He lifts his wand, turning to face the class, and sees Eames watching with everyone else. The memory fades, replaced by the punching and then their conversation in the kitchens the day before, and he falters, his wand lowering slightly. Setting his jaw, he concentrates as hard as he can on the day he'd gone to Diagon Alley with Professor McGonagall, the day he'd realized magic was real, that he was really being sent away, to the castle that's become his real home.

" _Expecto Patronum!_ "

Nothing happens. He tries again. " _Expecto Patronum!_ "

Still nothing. To his left, Royce snickers. Flitwick eyes him. "Ah, Mr. Royce. Thank you for volunteering to try, as well."

Arthur trudges back to his seat, thanking one of his dormmates when he assures him that he'll get it next time. He keeps his eyes on his desk, dejected, even when Flitwick assures them all (upon Royce's failing, as well) that it takes a great deal of skill to produce even the silvery mist, and that many wizards never manage more than that, even Charms Masters.

The rest of Charms does not go well; no one in their year manages it, despite a great deal of attempting and one broken window. Eames manages to sleep through the first five minutes or so of this portion of the class, but is caught and forced to participate, with ten more points taken from Slytherin.

Frankly, he’s lucky he knows what spell it is they’re trying to learn. Needless to say, he fails miserably at the whole three attempts he gives it. Can’t even come up with a single happy memory over the noise his brain bleeding out of his ears is creating. Royce has the bad luck of commenting on his inability to produce anything, and then the state of his hair.

And that is how Eames ends up losing a total of thirty-five points in the space of half an hour, and how Royce ends up with detention for attempting to throw a punch at Eames, who does not so much _dodge_ as fall into the desk behind him and avoid getting hit. That he’d instigated it, no one doubts, but Flitwick hadn’t seen or heard anything, and so Eames doesn’t get detention along with Royce. In fact, he wouldn’t have even lost the last fifteen points if he hadn’t responded to Flitwick’s stern telling off of Royce by announcing that _now_ he’s got a perfectly good memory for the spell.

In retrospect, probably not the best response. But better Flitwick heard that than Eames’ explanation regarding his hair, and how Royce’s mum always mucks it up that way.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The following weekend is Hogsmeade weekend, which is miraculously even more depressing now that Arthur is fairly certain he's ruined things with Eames rather completely, now. Maybe he could have salvaged it, before his idiotic question, but now there's no chance. Not after putting him on the spot that way.

And really, he barely knows the guy. Just because this whole thing had happened... Most of the history, the personal information he'd known about Eveline had been part of Eames' cover story. He knows surprisingly little about Eames himself, beyond the obvious, what with the contraband alcohol and the stories about orgies in the Slytherin common room that Arthur is _mostly_ sure are just stories. At least about the orgy part; he knows the contraband part is real.

The point is, he shouldn't be this upset over someone he hardly knows. And he's not just going to sit around all Hogsmeade weekend, moping. Er, again, anyway. That would be entirely unproductive. It's this frame of mind that has him heading out to the quidditch pitch by noon with his broom, flying drills. He's out there for at least two hours before anyone interrupts him at all, and it's _glorious_.

After Monday, when his brain finally stops trying to abandon ship, Eames finally begins to really think about what had happened- or rather, what had been _said_ \- that night in the kitchen. He'd been a little too drunk to handle the whole conversation properly, he thinks, but he wasn't yet drunk enough that he can't remember what was said. And he doesn't think he made up the way Arthur might have smiled at him, or that he'd turned red when he'd asked if Eames had really fancied him. Or that he'd then apologized for being an asshole. Or the way he'd looked just before he'd fled.

By the time the weekend comes, Eames knows he didn't imagine those things, because now _Arthur_ has been avoiding _him_. True, Eames doesn't really go out of his way to find Arthur, because he's still more than half convinced he'll end up punched, and he doesn't want to put Yusuf and the mini-Ravenclaw in the sort of position all the time where they'd be totally awkward. But the couple of times he works himself up to considering hanging out with the lot of them at once, Arthur is nowhere to be found.

Eames wishes he knew what that meant. For sure. He really wishes he could distance himself enough that he could be sure that his suspicions are just suspicions and not him being hopeful. He hates being hopeful. It seems so very pathetic.

And yet, by Saturday, Eames can't help but feel that there was something in that conversation- if it could even really have been called such- that he'd missed, hadn't caught on to soon enough. And miserable and moping he might have been for the past year, but Eames isn't normally that way. Normally, he's too curious for his own good, happy to go about getting his way in any manner he can manage, and not afraid to talk to anyone. Conversations don't intimidate him. He reminds himself of that as he goes on a search for Arthur, determining his lack of Hogsmeade plans through a casual conversation with Ariadne on Friday (Eames himself hasn't been to Hogsmeade in ages). It's really not particularly difficult to find him at the Quidditch pitch. Of course, Eames didn't think to bring his broom, so it _is_ a bit difficult to catch his attention.

So Eames doesn't really bother, right away. No way Arthur will spot him wandering around at ground level, so he makes his way into the teachers' stands, sitting down on one of the benches while Arthur is at the other end of the pitch, facing the other way. Not quite the same as sneaking up on him, but it's not exactly easy to sneak up on a bloke who's flying about on a broom. Tapping his feet on the bench in front of him, Eames watches for a minute, until Arthur starts getting closer to his side of the pitch, at which point he shouts, "Do you need a practice heckler for realism?"

Startled enough that he's being spoken to at all (he'd noticed someone there, and then had nearly fallen from his broom when he'd gotten close enough to see that it's Eames), Arthur skids to a stop in midair, unable to keep from staring despite himself. His first thought is to wonder what Eames is doing there, but that seems rude to ask straight off, and he really doesn't need to make anythink worse.

His second thought is to point out, stating the obvious, that Eames is talking to him, of his own volition, but it seems a bit ridiculous to him to blatantly invite ridicule for such an idiotic observation.

He settles, after a startled moment too long to be considered a normal conversational pause and far too long to keep pace with their usual bickering, on, "It's a free Quidditch pitch." And then he wants to smack himself in the face. Far too long to come up with a reply in the first place, and that's the best he can manage. "Something you wanted?" That, at least, doesn't come out resentful or annoyed, but rather subdued.

That last statement is _almost_ on par with something Arthur would normally say to him, but his tone is not normal at all, and Eames resists the urge to frown. This has gone from the most misery-inducing thing that has ever happened to Eames to maybe okay some day, to confusing as all hell. He supposes he deserves that, though, since it's not exactly a simple situation he's managed to create. Most blokes, upon realizing they fancy another bloke, probably wouldn't decide that the best option is to turn into a girl and date him. Even disregarding the fact that most blokes _couldn't_ do that.

Eames, of course, is not most blokes, and naturally managed to create the most confusing situation possible out of an already fairly confusing situation. And now Arthur has moved beyond hating Eames enough to punch him to... something else that Eames isn't sure he's reading correctly, and he's making it even worse. Eames just wishes... he wishes it was as easy for him to talk to Arthur as it was when he was Eveline. But he's too afraid to bring any of that to mind, near Arthur, and can't.

Worse, sometimes Eames finds himself wishing that Arthur had never found out, that things had just carried on that way. Even now, after all that, the guilt included, Eames wishes that he could have just stayed Eveline. It's sick and ridiculous, of course, there's no way that would have worked long-term, but... it's the truth. Arthur misses her, whether or not she was real. But what Eames would never dare say to Arthur is that _he_ misses _Arthur._ Because Eveline wasn't real... but Eames is. It wasn't just being hated and the guilt, Arthur hitting him and Eames feeling like scum. It was all of that on top of missing what he'd lost. All confusing as possible, because Eames still doesn't know how he should feel about the fact that he had no problems turning into a girl and dating Arthur. On top of all of that... there's that confusion, and maybe a little disgust with himself, not because of what he'd done to Arthur but because of the way he'd gone about it.

He saw the way Yusuf had reacted the whole thing. He shouldn't _be_ comfortable turning into a female. It's not something Eames knows how to handle, and so has done his best just to not think about the whole thing. Merlin knows he's got plenty else on his mind.

He's not well-known for courage, Eames will readily admit that much. But by this point, Arthur already knows more than enough to condemn him forever, socially speaking. There's no reason to keep things from him, because what sense of shame Eames does have he's long since swallowed in front of Arthur. "It's just that you didn't really answer my question," he says after a moment. Then he hesitates, but finally adds, "If it does matter. About fancying you. Why it should."

It's at about this point that Arthur nearly runs- or rather flies- away, but he's a Gryffindor and so that isn't really an option, isn't even really considered. Instead he just hovers there, wondering if it's possible for one to fall right out of the sky if they stop thinking about their broom flying. He knows it's not, that there are safety charms in place for just that reason, but... well.

He doesn't know what to say. He hadn't thought Eames would care, wonders why he _does_... and admittedly, he can see how their situations are suddenly reversed. If this is the sort of terror he caused Eames, asking if Eames had fancied him, then Arthur is a royal arse.

"I just... wondered if you still did," he says, quietly enough that he's barely audible over the wind coming in from the lake. "Is all. I mean, you drove me batshit crazy until last year, but I... I think half of that was that... I also. Fancied you. If I could get you to shut up, for five minutes, but I didn't know you, or I didn't realize I did, and..."

Eames is gaping at him, now. Arthur swallows hard, setting his jaw. "And I'm taking it on faith that you're not going to go about telling anyone I'm half a pouf."

Fuck courage. This is the most he can take right now. He can't believe he just said all of that. It just came pouring out of his mouth as he thought it, no actual thinking of the consequences involved, and _Merlin_ he can't just sit here... His broom is nearly vibrating with the tension he feels, and he reverses a bit. "I... I have to... there's a... yes."

And he's turning, zooming back to the castle, not landing and walking back like they're supposed to; he reaches the bridge and jumps off the broom before it's even stopped moving, and he's bolting across it and back into the castle before he even lets himself think. He's completely devoid of any idea of where he should go, hide, be alone, _something_ , and he's on his way down the steps to the boathouse before he really gives it much thought. He kicks out the fifth year and fourth year who are snogging inside, and locks the door, sinking down onto the stone ledge with his back to the wall and staring out across the lake.

 

Eames has never seen anyone move so fast in his life, and yet that barely even registers. Not much of anything really registers, to be honest, after Arthur announces (quietly) that he'd fancied _Eames_. That is all Eames hears, and by the time he's come out of the shock, Arthur has gone. Which is probably just as well, because Eames isn't sure he could stand up, right now. He... needs a minute.

Distantly, he realizes that that... probably makes a lot of sense. He'd thought that, at the time... wondered if Arthur liking Eveline meant that Arthur _really_ fancied him. Since he _was_ Eveline. He'd let himself hope that maybe, once he explained himself to Arthur... but that hadn't happened, and when Arthur had found out... well. To say Eames had been certain of his own total idiocy would be a vast understatement. Of course Arthur wouldn't fancy _him_ \- Arthur _hated_ him. Even before what happened, Arthur had always been annoyed with Eames at best. And after... well. Fancying a girl is one thing. That doesn't mean anything.

Since then, Eames had been thoroughly convinced that Arthur's feelings for Eveline had no bearing whatsoever on _him_ , that he was an idiot for ever daring to hope, and messed up on top of all of that for even thinking that it made any sense for Arthur's feelings for him pretending to be a girl would follow through to him as he actually is, a bloke. That he was an idiot on top of being a twat for what he'd done. So it's hard to allow himself to imagine... that he might not have been entirely wrong about everything. Well, obviously that was a shite way to go about things, but... maybe what he'd been trying to do... trying to see... maybe it wasn't all based on a false premise.

More shocking and yeah, slightly frightening: maybe it could be salvaged. Arthur had said that he _had_ fancied Eames, but... he'd also wondered if Eames still fancied him. Expressed worry about Eames mentioning that to anyone. Eames supposes it's easy to take it on faith that he'll keep it to himself when Arthur could easily tell the whole world equally or more-condemning things about Eames.

It would be a lie to say Eames hasn't thought about what it would be like, to... well, he doesn't know. Be with Arthur. He has. It's true. But he'd never allowed himself to get beyond fantasizing into hoping, because even if Arthur didn't hate him anymore, he'd not only blown his chance, blokes just... well. It's not even a thing, in their society, really. He's supposed to marry a nice witch- preferably pureblood, by his dad's standards- and whatever else he wants to carry on beyond that, he keeps behind closed doors. And that is that. So he'd never once thought about approaching Arthur as a bloke and letting on that he really, honestly fancies him. Sexual harassment is one thing, something that Eames tends to do to people regardless of gender, especially to Arthur, at least before. But that's not the same... or he'd never let on that it was.

Maybe, he thinks, staring at the castle in the distance, he ought to have let on. Then he would never have gotten that ridiculous idea in his head... would never have hurt Arthur that way.

Eames leaves the pitch some time later, wandering quietly back to the castle and to his dormitory. He has no idea where Arthur's gone, but that's all right. He needs some time to think about this. And what he ought to do _now_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mostly out of self-preservation, Arthur returns to his avoidance of Eames, not that he'd ever really stopped. Eames had found him, on the Quidditch pitch, not the other way around. So he just... continues, especially that evening. He hurries down, just after dinner is over, to the kitchens to beg some leftovers from the house elves, not going anywhere near the Great Hall. Of course, he's been doing this for over a week now, anyway, and he's wary of establishing a pattern, so he decides that he'll go early, the next night. Everyone will be in Hogsmeade anyway; no one will know he's hiding.

He stays in his own dormitory that night, ostensibly studying and working on his homework but really not doing much more than staring at the same page for at least an hour before he gives up. The rest of the night does not go any better.

He can't just keep dwelling on it, he's decided by the next morning. He'd told Eames. For better or worse, it's done. Eames can do with that knowledge what he will, and Arthur holds on to the tenuous little thread of pride he's got left, after the day before, actually going down to breakfast, since everyone will be there, not just the small group of students who are either too young or uninterested in going to Hogsmeade, as will be the case at dinner. And it's strange, to walk into the Great Hall and realize that no one even knows he's going through a personal crisis. Well, at least, no one but perhaps Yusuf and Ariadne. Yusuf certainly has no idea of what he'd told Eames, the day before.

And he will continue to have no idea, not until the other shoe drops and whatever is going to come out of this actually happens, Arthur figures.

He hadn't expected Eames to be awake yet, as he isn't usually at breakfast until the very last moment, and not at all on weekends (not that Arthur takes note of the other boy's eating habits, or anything). But there he is, already sitting with Yusuf, and he looks up as soon as Arthur walks in.

Arthur's heart starts to pound, a rapid staccato beat, and he's suddenly dizzy with nerves, feeling sick to his stomach and abruptly not hungry for breakfast. But he's already here, and if he turns around and runs off, he'll just be a coward. The same goes for going to sit at the Gryffindor table. He'd said what he said, and he'll face the consequences; whatever happens, the night before had been the longest, most anxious night he's ever spent. He doesn't want another one of those.

So he walks over to where Yusuf and Eames are sitting with Ariadne, the third year looking more than half-asleep, still. Arthur had forgotten that this is her first year going to the village at all. He sits down next to her, across from Eames, and forces himself to keep his expression normal. "Morning. What did you do to her?"

This half-accusation is directed to Yusuf, who'd been the one to show Ariadne around Hogsmeade the day before, but Arthur glances over at Eames once he says it, his expression slightly cautious. That isn't unexpected, even for Yusuf and Ariadne, who know quite well that he and Eames have been avoiding one another for two consecutive school terms, now.

“What? Me?” Yusuf asks, all innocence. He’s not particularly _good_ at innocence, but he does give it a good shot.

“I’m right here, you know,” Ariadne mumbles, pushing her bacon around on her plate. “I can hear you.”

“Well it doesn’t matter, because I didn’t do anything,” Yusuf points out. “Tell Arthur how I did nothing to scar or traumatize you.”

“We went into the Hog’s Head,” Ariadne says instead. Yusuf looks betrayed.

Across from Ariadne, Eames snorts. “Is that all? Yusuf practically needs someone to show _him_ around. They probably ended up discussing potions theories all day.” He pauses, and then glances up across the table at Arthur, who… looks a bit worse for wear, really. The way he looks like he’s just barely keeping himself from running off, afraid of what might come, is a very familiar expression to Eames: Arthur is afraid of what Eames’ reaction to yesterday might be.

Eames supposes he can’t blame him. He had, in fact, been thinking about what his reaction ought to be, himself. All night. Which would be why he’s here so early. He may have stayed up all night. Sort of. More or less. He got his homework done!

But more importantly, he’d decided on what he ought to do, more or less, and that they really need to sort this out or risk ending up with all sorts of… misunderstandings, as Arthur had put it, all over again. And Eames finds that he really doesn’t like Arthur looking so damned full of nerves. So he tries his very best for a smile, even if it is a bit tentative. Can’t really say anything about it now, but… Eames wouldn’t have stayed here when Arthur showed up if he’d been bothered by what happened the day before.

Arthur smiles back, very carefully, and only slightly, really, because he's paranoid. It's not that he's ashamed of Eames, more that he really just doesn't want to find out what would happen if one of the pureblood idiots were to find out about either of them liking another bloke. Somehow, he doesn't think that would end well. And while a slight smile is hardly damning evidence, as previously stated, he's paranoid.

By the time breakfast is over and the majority of the student population troops down to Hogsmeade again, keeping the shops in business for the most part until the next Hogsmeade weekend, or at least keeping Honeydukes prosperous, Arthur still has no idea what to say to Eames. When he excuses himself and gets up to leave, though, he's not surprised to find Eames following him out of the Great Hall and down the corridor towards the first floor lavatory.

The door doesn't have a chance to swing shut before Eames slips into the bathroom behind him, and again, Arthur isn't surprised, despite his nerves. Turning to face the other boy, he forces himself to stop tapping his fingers on his wand, his very own nervous tic. "Hi," he says quietly, not having any idea of what he should say.

“Hi,” Eames says just as quietly, eyeing the stalls in the corner of the large bathroom. There’s no one in here; they might have noticed someone wandering in ahead of them. There’s hardly anyone in the castle on Hogsmeade weekends, though, and they would be able to see anyone in the stalls. Easily.

Privacy thus assured, Eames turns his attention back to Arthur, who still looks rather nervous. Eames can’t blame him for that at all. He’s not sure… but he thinks… he thinks that finally they understand one another, or at least are beginning to. It’s… it’s a relief, more than anything. And he’s hopeful, yeah, really quite pathetically so, but even if his hopes are dashed, this is better, so much better than things had been.

Eames looks at Arthur for a moment, and then away, down at the floor, over at the sinks, just anywhere he can while he thinks of a way to phrase what he wants to say. Not that he hasn’t been doing that all night. “I’ve fancied you for a long time,” he finally just announces, clearly having worked himself up to this, and just as clearly having decided that there’s no use in beating around the bush, not now. “I mean, not in first year, probably, since you don’t really when you’re eleven, but… yeah. That doesn’t matter. It’s just… what I mean to say is yes. Yes I did fancy you. And I tried to tell you a thousand times, when we were… you know, when I was Eveline. But I couldn’t. And I’m sorry. I mean, Arthur, I know sorry isn’t enough, I know it was psychotic and I probably need therapy or some shite but I just… I never meant it to hurt you. I didn‘t think, when it started, it was just that you’d never paid me attention before, and I thought maybe… I don’t know what I thought. I’m an idiot, mainly. And then it was too late… and I just… couldn‘t. Yes.” He pauses, realizes by the look on Arthur’s face that he’s just gone off for about three minutes, and runs a hand through his hair. “Yes. Sorry. Not quite enough sleep. I‘ll just, uh- stop. Stop talking. I will do that now.”

"That's all right," Arthur says weakly. He'd done it himself, the day before... and now... this. Now, he realizes, Eames has fancied him for... "Years?" he asks, just to clarify.

Eames nods, looking about as weak as Arthur feels. Arthur lets out a breath, unable to quite grasp the enormity of that. "I get it, with Eveline," he says finally, shifting a bit. "It's all right, now. I sort of... I mean, I understand why you did it. Muggles are... I mean, I guess that they acknowledge that it happens, that blokes fancy blokes and girls fancy girls, but it doesn't seem like wizards do..."

It doesn't seem like the moment to bring up how he'd found out about homosexuality, at age eight, when he'd walked in on his married foster father taking it up the arse from the next-door also-married neighbor. And then another foster mother's boyfriend, the summer before fifth year, who'd cornered him in the garden shed after he'd finished mowing the lawn and touched him... before Arthur had shoved an elbow in his throat and a wrench into his balls, literally.

But the experience had stayed with him, not in the sense that he'd be uncomfortable with Eames but in that... well, he only wants a very select people to touch him, thanks. Too many people in social services and the foster care system have touched him and hugged him without asking permission, over the years. Arthur's a big proponent of asking permission. No one has tried to touch him that way since then; his foster dad had slapped him around a bit this summer, but he's getting big enough that the blokes don't try to do that so much, anymore. A definite benefit to the growth spurt he'd hit, finally, pants legs too short or not. 'S what shorts are for.

At the moment, though, he's more concerned with Eames than with growth spurts. He takes a careful step forward; he's all the way over by the sinks, and Eames isn't far from the door, a good distance. Eames doesn't back away, so he takes another, and then another, slowly moving closer before stopping an arm's length away. "What happens now, then? If we both fancy one another..."

To be honest, Eames' heart has been going a little too fast for probably the last four hours, now, since he's basically being kept awake by tea and willpower. But suddenly it speeds up further, and Eames is absolutely certain that Arthur can hear it as he gets closer. He has half a mind to run away, to be honest; this is going in a good direction, but that has no bearing on how terrified Eames is that this isn't actually happening, or that Arthur is just leading him on to get back at him, even though he knows very well that Arthur wouldn't do that sort of thing. Especially not considering how, well, _dangerous_ it is, letting on that you fancy another bloke. That sort of payback wouldn't be worth the risk.

So maybe it's stupid that he's still a bit afraid of that, or maybe he's just terrified because he's spent a year miserable because Arthur hated him more than he's ever been hated in his life, and it's hard to get himself to accept that maybe there's a chance of reconciliation. Because it just doesn't seem possible that this could be true, considering all of the horrifically insurmountable obstacles Eames has been sadly aware of since he first realized- really realized- that he fancied Arthur.

(It's all right, now? Is it possible that Arthur could actually mean that? How could he possibly be so forgiving?)

Or... maybe he's just hopeful. Arthur's very close, now, closer than he's been in a year, and Eames is reminded very suddenly of the last date they'd had- him as Eveline, of course- when they'd kissed. That had been the last time, really, that they'd spoken or even been near one another, aside from Arthur punching him. Until this year, that is. And suddenly, it feels very unfinished, like the past year has been an unfortunate sidetrack and now they're back where they ought to be.

So, screwing up his courage- he has so much more than usual when he reckons he's got nothing left to lose- Eames backs up half a step to turn the lock on the door. Won't keep anyone out for long in a castle full of nosy wizards, but the noise of someone trying to turn it and failing is enough time to alert anyone inside. He doesn't give Arthur time to comment before he says, quite seriously, "Please don't punch me," and closes the distance between them again to kiss him. He's been wanting to do that since... well, he's not sure, just about forever, and even if Eames is terrified and half-convinced that Arthur will come to his senses in two seconds, he's got to do it. Could be his last and only chance, you never know.

Even though Arthur had suspected, had more or less known what Eames had been about to do, it's still startling when Eames' lips touch his, because it's been a year for him, too, and he hasn't kissed anyone since he'd last kissed Eveline- kissed Eames. His eyes close, and it feels the same, exactly the same as before, the same heat rushing through him, making his stomach drop and his hands tingle.

When he reaches up to put those hands on Eames' upper arms, to steady himself before he topples over, that does feel different, because Eames is a boy, and he's muscular, huge, really, especially for a sixteen-year-old, and it's so different but so fucking hot that Arthur barely pays it any attention at all.

When they finally pull back, Eames is as flushed and overheated-looking as Arthur feels, and Arthur suspects that he himself is currently grinning like a loon. He doesn't really care. "Bloody hell," is about all he's able to manage at the moment.

Right now Eames can’t tell if he’s so lightheaded from relief- because he hadn’t been punched, or because that was how he’d remembered it, despite the fact that they are both currently male- or from the kiss itself, but he doesn’t care. It could be both on top of lack of sleep. It doesn’t matter. They just kissed, and Arthur is grinning exactly the way he’d been grinning when they’d kissed last time, despite the fact that this is entirely different. This… Eames never let himself believe that this could actually happen, not like this. This is more than he ever hoped for.

“Yeah,” he agrees, unconsciously mirroring Arthur’s grin. This has been… a very strange week or so. A very _good_ week, now, he’s decided. They’d just kissed, and maybe that’s not normal, no. But Eames couldn’t care less. Arthur’s opinion is the only one that matters, especially right now. And this is a far cry from being punched.

When Arthur has regained his power of higher thought, he manages, in a rather strangled voice, "So... in conclusion, we've both been dense buggers. Pun... not entirely intended."

He's still smiling, although now it grows rather hesitant; when Eames returns it, though, looking amused, he's relieved. Not relieved enough to loosen his grip on the other boy's arms, though.

And there's another truth he really should admit. He's been too afraid to, but now that they finally seem to have gotten everything out in the open, he decides to take the plunge. "I've missed you." It's a bit of a mumble, but he says it. "Not just... from when you were Eveline, either. I'm sorry it took me so long to realize you meant it, that it was still you, as her."

Somehow, Eames manages to keep from laughing, sensing that now would not be an appropriate time for laughter. It would probably be _hysterical_ laughter, but he’s not sure if that would make it better, or worse. Hell, he’s half convinced that he’s sleeping and he’s going to wake up and this will have all been a dream… Arthur will still hate him… Merlin, he hopes not. That would be cruel of his subconscious.

“How should you have known?” Eames points out. After all, he’d gone to great lengths to keep Arthur from discovering him, even as he tried to find a way to tell him the truth. “I didn’t exactly make it easy to decipher.” And after Arthur had found him out… well, Eames wasn’t about to approach him, after that. He’d assumed his chance was done for, and stayed away for his own safety.

No, he doesn’t blame Arthur at all. Perhaps he was a bit dense, but he’s not the one who’d gone and pulled such a ridiculous stunt in order to get the other’s attention, essentially. And Eames can hardly blame him for not realizing that Eames fancied him, all things considered. As for missing him… Eames isn’t sure he knows how to react to that. Arthur… missed him. Not just Eveline. All of him. Eames can’t help the grin that breaks out. Maybe it’s that he’s running on no sleep… or maybe it’s that Arthur’s still holding on to him. Probably that one. Either way, he feels lightheaded. “I can bother you in class again,” he says, realization dawning and eyes lighting up even as his hair tinges a bit burgundy. “It’s been all sorts of boring without you.”

"You're going Gryffindor," Arthur points out, but it's not in a teasing tone, more a surprised one. Because Eames hasn't changed... not in a long time, that Arthur's been aware of. Now that he sees this, he remembers... His smile fades. "You haven't changed your hair or your eyes. Not where I've seen." Not since Eveline... and now, he is. It doesn't take a genius to note the correlation, to make that connection. He's heard stories about magic being strange, not working, if someone is really, truly upset, for a long time... maybe that's what happened. He doesn't know. But the guilt hits him again, because if only he'd figured it out, hadn't been so self-absorbed about the whole thing...

"You know, it's been so quiet, in Potions and Charms," he admits, only slightly grumbling. "And... it's... well, it's boring. But be forewarned, maybe I'll start giving as good as I get."

Eames’ grin only grows at this near-threat. “Arthur,” he says, quite seriously, “I can’t think of anything I would enjoy more.”

Perhaps oddly, it’s the truth. Eames is quite content to harass Arthur and receive no response or the sort of response that he normally gets (got), which is severe annoyance. But Eames would cherish the opportunity to be harassed in turn by Arthur. Really, the point is just… harassing Arthur. That’s all Eames really wants. Getting Arthur to react in any way only makes it that much better.

As for his hair… well… Eames shrugs. It’s been… it’s been hard, for a while, changing things the way he normally does. From the moment he was born, Eames has been changing hair color, eye color, nose shape and just about everything else at will. Often without meaning to, although he’s gotten better at that over the years, his hair and eyes tend to go all over the place when he’s excited or such. It came as easily to Eames as breathing… until last year or so, when it just… became a chore. Or impossible. It was really quite frightening, bordering on terrifying, for it to suddenly be gone, his metamorphmagus abilities… but it really hadn’t been at the forefront of his mind.

And now…. Well. It’s not Arthur’s fault, and Eames doesn’t like him looking a bit guilty over it. “Haven’t much felt like it,” he says offhandedly, brushing it off, and then glances up to eye his hair, which is turning a bit more red than burgundy as it goes. Gryffindor, so he is. “I could do stripes with gold if you’re very nice to me.”

Arthur turns red, his cheeks obviously competing to see whether or not they can keep up with Eames' hair. "Very nice," he echoes, arching a brow. "I guess it would depend on what that entails."

Eames' answering smirk is positively evil, and Arthur has to fight not to laugh at it. It's a habit, and a very ingrained one, not to laugh at Eames' antics. He might have to break that habit, now, he thinks, but not too soon, or too quickly. He can't just let Eames think he's _won._ Won what, he's not entirely sure, but... well. Something. Definitely something.

Realizing that he's confusing himself at the very least, he finally lets his hands drop from Eames' arms, more than a bit grudgingly. because locked door or not, the first floor bathroom is not the place for this. He's not sure he believes Eames' oh so casual assertion that he simply hadn't felt like changing his appearance, because from his own observations (not to the extent of being creepy, of course) Arthur knows that changing things like the color of his hair or eyes had been as automatic as breathing, often, to Eames.

But he's not going to push the issue, not now, at least. He's also not going to suddenly start babbling about everything that had happened to him, over the summer, either, despite having the strong urge to do so, out of the blue. No, rather, he's just going to try not to be weird, or pushy, or anything like that.

Eames' smirk turns into a bit more of a smile after a moment, because he's quite adept, by now, at spotting the quickly-stifled amusement. Well, that, and Arthur's still a bit red, and so is obviously not up to his usual par of keeping his amusement and/or other feelings to himself. Eames decides to keep his hair this color for a bit today, for Arthur's sake. He doesn't really have the skin coloring to be a ginger, but he can change that if it's too bad, and besides, this isn't the same red color as, say, the Weasleys' hair. It's burgundy. No one has the proper skin coloring for that, really.

Then Arthur removes his hands from his arms, and Eames actually withholds a sigh. Arthur’s right, of course, this isn’t really the place for that sort of thing, but… well, Eames wishes it was. It strikes him as horrendously stupid, suddenly, everything that’s gone on for the past year, and how horribly people would react if they knew. It occurs to him, too, that he’d be shunned not just because Arthur is a bloke but also a Gryffindor… and a muggleborn. All of these things together causing a problem is going to make him very disgruntled and frustrated, later. But right now, Eames mostly just wishes that this was a bit more private.

On the other hand, he’s not entirely sure he’d manage to actually do any of the things he’s vaguely wishing he could do right now anyway. Absolute lack of sleep aside, he’s pretty sure they need to work up to that sort of thing. Can’t do that in the first-floor boys’ lavatory anyway.

So, red-haired and lacking Arthur’s hands on his arms, Eames smiles a bit and begins to worry about the same things Arthur is worrying about, such as… how to not sound like an idiot, now. “Best unlock the door, s’pose,” he finally mumbles. “Before a first year smacks into it not expecting it to be locked.” Actually, that would be kind of hilarious.

Arthur snorts quietly, nodding and moving off to the side, reaching back and turning the lock again so that it's open. He'd be amazed that there are locks at all, except for the fact that this is a magical school, and any student or teacher really wanting something locked would use a spell, no matter what the door. And he doubts many spells would work in keeping a teacher out, not spells that a student could come up with, at any rate. Either would work well for Filch, though...

"That would be pretty fantastic," he admits, wondering if he should hold the door for Eames. Eames might think it's weird... but he always had for Eveline, so he doesn't know. He ends up doing it, stepping out and holding it open for the other boy with a sheepish sort of smile, shrugging. "After you."

Eames can’t help but grin at that, and after a moment, he does go through the opened door, still grinning a bit. Maybe his grin is a bit silly, but he can’t help it. He’s still half convinced he’s asleep, and Arthur opening the door for him kind of makes him want to start laughing, it’s just so absurd after the last year. Also, the threatening laughter probably has something to do with the fact that he’s gotten no sleep.

Fortunately, there are no first years about, running into the door or not. Eames, for one, is a bit disappointed that no one had, but he’s much happier without being interrupted. “Did you have plans today?” he asks after a moment, when it occurs to him that he might be holding Arthur up. “I did sort of waylay you.”

"No, I..." Arthur trails off, shaking his head. How to explain that his plan had been to try to... well, to try to do _something_ about the situation between them? There's not really a way to explain that doesn't make him sound like a pussy, and so he lets it go. "Nothing, really."

They're in the corridor, now, no longer anywhere private, so their discussions have to be more careful. He might not like it, but he knows it. And it's not like it would be any better, anywhere else; in the neighborhoods where he lives over the summers, blokes get beaten for being poufs. The only difference is that this would be being attacked with magic, not with fists and knives and tire irons.

He's still not sure whether he's completely a pouf. He thinks he's only half, because he does like girls. But he's also liked Eames, a bloke, for a very long time, and it's clear that he also likes kissing Eames, both as a bloke and a girl. So he's a half-pouf, he supposes. "Want to go down to Hogsmeade?" he suggests, and then pauses. "I mean... unless... Royce and that lot. They'd see you with me." Snogging notwithstanding, that lot hates Arthur, and it'd make Eames' life that much harder to be seen with him. "I've got wizard's chess or gobstones in my trunk."

“Royce is a twat,” Eames says after a moment. He doesn’t hesitate to call Royce a twat- he is- so much as pause for a moment, considering what he’s going to say. It’s true that Royce and… well, most everyone in that group, isn’t quite fond of Arthur. Because of his blood status… and because he fights back. And it’s also true that Eames hasn’t stood up to them about it, but then again, he’s never stood against Arthur, either. And frankly, Arthur has never needed his help.

It’s been the best idea, really, to just keep out of it; except for that one conversation with Arthur in fourth year, Eames hadn’t let on to anyone his feelings about blood status. It’s really just safest for him to keep to himself. No need to get himself cursed for a blood traitor every two minutes. He does, after all, share a room with Royce.

But at the same time… Arthur. Eames doesn’t even really _like_ Royce. Yeah, they’re cousins, but Eames would be hard-pressed to find someone in Slytherin he’s _not_ related to. And maybe they are friends, more or less, but Eames is friends with most everyone. Being friends doesn’t always mean much, in Slytherin. So there’s Royce, and then there’s Arthur. Now that he knows Arthur fancies him… even really now that he knows Arthur doesn’t _detest_ him… suddenly what had been a very difficult, guilt-inducing display of indifference before doesn’t seem like the only way to handle things. He’d never been quite brave enough to disagree with anyone about any of it, had always been a bit too political about the whole thing, but underneath, he’d always thought they were full of shite.

He doesn’t know why, but suddenly it seems like no big deal, the idea of telling Royce and that lot to piss off. But then, Arthur has never wanted anything to do with him in public before. “We should go,” he says after a moment. Of course, this will have to happen now, before he gets so tired he’ll pass out anywhere, but he doesn’t say that to Arthur. “You’d kill me at chess anyway, I haven’t the patience.” Not right now, anyway.

Arthur smiles, but then it fades after a moment. "We can't," he says, shaking his head. "You... you have to live with Royce and all of them, for another year and a half. If they see us hanging out together... they'll make your life miserable. Yeah, they harass me, but I've got a different dorm to go back to, and I don't sleep ten feet away from them."

Eames' face has fallen, and Arthur looks away, fighting the urge to hit something. "Shit. I'm sorry. But... it's true. You know it's true. I want to go to Hogsmeade with you, and it means a lot that you would do that, but I won't go at the expense of the rest of our school years being that bad for you."

And he knows Eames can see the logic. He knows, because he can see the resignation on Eames' face, too, and he sighs. But there's nothing either of them can do about it, not until they're out of this place.

Despite the fact that this is the same logic- almost _exactly_ the same logic- that he's been using for the entirety of his school career to justify keeping out of fights over blood status (or lack thereof), Eames hates hearing it come from Arthur. He sounds so _resigned_ about it. It's just... well, it's beyond stupid, the whole thing, but even after the war, things haven't really changed. Everyone made a big show about tolerance and inclusiveness, equality, but it was all just words, really. Eames could count the number of purebloods he knows who actually believe that anyone who isn't at the very least a half-blood is really worth bothering with on one hand, let alone purebloods who would have anything to do with a muggleborn beyond a public display of nicety.

He recalls _very_ clearly the school term when Alexander had dated a half-blood Gryffindor girl whose mother wasn't even a witch at all, but a muggle. Just barely considered a half-blood, as such things go, and so their father had had an enormous fit. Months of fighting had ensued, during which Eames was certain if he hadn't been fighting to defend her, his brother would have dumped the girl anyway. The point remains, and it's interesting to note that Alexander's girlfriend these days is a pureblood, and their father hasn't said a word.

Eames, meanwhile, has never dared any such thing. He keeps his personal life to himself when he's home; his father detests him enough already without him helping out. He shudders to think how his father would react to Arthur.

"It's really only a matter of time before I try to murder him anyway," Eames mutters. "He gets it in his head to hate me every other day." Of course, Eames never does anything to bring this on. It's all Royce. Naturally.

Arthur smiles a little, bitterly. "I'd wait until you're out of school, at least," he offers. "Better chance of keeping it a secret. In fact, I'll help." It would be his pleasure.

He grabs Eames' sleeve, yanking lightly. "Come on. Let's go to the kitchens and get food, and take it outside, or something."

Eames goes when he's tugged, but it's not until they're actually outside, near the edge of the lake, that either of them say much of anything else. There's a large flat rock, just out into the water, and Arthur climbs up onto it, Summoning the food. There's two thermoses of hot chocolate and a whole basket of sandwiches, the house elves of Hogwarts being quite familiar with the appetites of teenaged boys.

"Rumpy put a flask in here," he says, digging down to the bottom and laughing. "Oh, Christ, that elf." Pulling it out, he takes a swig and offers it to Eames with a wicked sort of grin, before stuffing an entire half of a sandwich into his mouth at one time. Brisket on crusty french bread. God, he loves Hogwarts' food. "Fuck, I wish I could eat like this forever." His mouth might be slightly full as he says it, and Eames might be laughing at him a little, but he doesn't care. It tastes far too good.

Eames can't help but grin at that picture. Of course, he knows very little about Arthur's home life- such as it is- but he does know that Hogwarts food is amazing. And probably terrible for you, but he hardly cares. "If they let anyone eat like this forever they'd be in trouble," he points out. "I'm surprised the professors aren't all twice as heavy as they ought to be."

Merlin knows, given access to a replenishing table full of food at every meal, all of the adolescents eat until long past when they ought to stop. Maybe adults know better? Eames supposes that would explain it. He's not entirely certain he'd behave himself as an adult, given the food here. It's not like this at home, house elves or not. There's really nowhere quite like Hogwarts.

Nor are their elves quite like Rumpy. "Rumpy is wonderful," he declares, not quite finished with the flask. "And very happy with me since he's got a girlfriend now."

"Sammy?" Arthur asks, arching a brow. Eames just grins, and Arthur rolls his eyes, but he's smiling, too. "Good for Rumpy."

He leans back against the rock, thinking about how many nights in a row he'd had Pop-Tarts for dinner over the past summer. "I wish they'd let students stay over the summer. I'd work, if they'd let me, to be able to stay. Help Hagrid, and Professor Sprout. Or anyone, really." Hell, for the opportunity to stay, he'd even volunteer to help Snape.

But he's sure he's not the first orphan who wishes they could just stay at Hogwarts until their majority. "Even once I'm seventeen... I'm in the muggle foster system. They're not officially adults until they reach eighteen. I don't know what I'll do, really."

Eames considers this, pausing for a moment in his almost unnaturally quick alcohol intake in order to get a sandwich for himself. He knows next to nothing about the muggle foster system. All he knows, he’d learned from letters Arthur had written him- well, Eveline- and from what little he gleaned from his brother and Yusuf, over the years. Arthur had said his parents aren’t around- in what manner, Eames doesn’t know- and so, in the muggle system, they assign other surrogate families to children. And that can change from summer to summer, or even several times _during_ the summer.

Arthur doesn’t talk about it much- barely talks about it at all, really- but much as he’d downplayed the entire thing with Eveline, Eames gets the strong feeling that his life outside of Hogwarts isn’t wonderful. He’s not about to push the subject- would never be quite so rude, to Arthur at least- but he’s not an idiot. Half the students complain that they want to stay at Hogwarts to avoid summer, but none of them really mean it. Only someone who has nothing worthwhile to go home to over summers would wish for that sort of thing.

“But you’re not a muggle,” he points out. “Perhaps you could ask Professor McGonagall about having someone deal with the muggle authorities. As a wizard you’d be old enough to do as you please. You shouldn’t have to worry about two governments’ laws.”

"I've been worrying about them for six years," Arthur points out, watching the clouds move rapidly across the sky. It's windy today, as it often is, near a Scottish loch. "That sounds like heaven. But... I'll see, I'll talk to her."

He wants, suddenly, to tell Eames what had happened to him. To tell someone, tell _Eames_ about his mother. He hasn't told anyone, even Yusuf, but it's been months, and after what had happened the summer after fifth year, he'd been in the shittiest foster home, because no one else would take someone who'd brained their foster mother's boyfriend with a shovel.

"My mum," he says suddenly, still staring up at the clouds. "She's not dead. She's in... the muggle hospital. Like St. Mungo's, but for the mad ones." All of that spills out with little input on his part, and the rest... well, it's slower, quieter. But it comes. "She didn't recognize me, this summer. Didn't even notice me visiting."

By this point, Eames is long since staring at Arthur, totally disregarding everything else around them. True, he hadn’t known exactly what the full story was with Arthur’s parents, but… yeah, he’d mostly assumed that they must be dead, because he’d said “gone,” and that’s… well, he’s living with foster parents, so Eames had just… assumed. And obviously Arthur had let that go on.

He was pretty bloody wrong, looks like, in assuming. Eames… actually has no idea what to say. Arthur… well, a couple of weeks ago, Arthur wasn’t even _talking_ to him. And now… Eames knows, knows very well that this isn’t the sort of thing Arthur shares. Not with anyone, really. Far as he knows. He doesn’t have any idea why he’d tell _him_ , trust him enough, but… he gets the significance of it.

And… that… is awful. Eames actually has no idea what to say. That’s horrible, and he honestly can’t imagine. St. Mungo’s has a ward for witches and wizards who’ve gone mad… his mum being mad is bad enough. But not even recognizing him, not noticing him there? That goes beyond terrible. Eames bites his lip, staring over at Arthur, who’s not looking at him, and very nearly drops his sandwich. Arthur had been so quiet, explaining that, and Eames hates the idea of Arthur being so hurt. Violently. He hates it almost absurdly violently. But there’s… absolutely nothing to do about it. “Do… do muggles…can they help her?” he asks after a moment, not sure what else to say but to wonder, he supposes, if there’s any hope.

Arthur's headshake is slower than it would normally be, and he sits up, looking out over the lake, facing mostly away from Eames. It's not that he's embarrassed, more that... he's never told anyone, here, about this. He tries to separate it in his mind, the person he is, or that he's told he is, by the people whose houses he lives in over the summer, from who he is the rest of the time, at Hogwarts. He's not a creepy little fuck-up. Here, in the sun, with plenty of food and Eames sitting right there, yeah, he can believe that.

But when it's someone who's trying to lock him in a closet, or kicking him out, calling him a little freak and a good-for-nothing little prick, when he has nowhere else he can go and no magic to rescue him, sometimes Hogwarts seems very far away, like maybe he made it up in the first place.

He's not usually one for self-pity, and most of the reason he's never told anyone anything about his life with the muggles is because he doesn't want any of their pity or their sympathy. It'll be over in a year, maybe two, and he can live permanently in the Wizarding World, hopefully be an Auror, all of that. And he can pretend the rest of it doesn't exist, when he's here.

"They've been trying since I was eight," he says, tossing a pebble out into the lake. He tries to spin it so it skips, but it just plops into the water and sinks. He's never been able to get the hang of that. "My little sister got sick a lot, and she died. My dad took off, and my mom went crazy. Wouldn't leave the house. The muggle doctors came and took her away, and social services sent me to live with my first foster mother. They have medications, muggle potions, but... it's never helped her. She always knew me, though, until... until May, and now she doesn't."

Eames is silent for a long moment after this, not entirely sure what to say. He knows very well that Arthur wouldn’t appreciate him heaping sympathies upon him. First off, his mother isn’t _dead_ , she’s mad. There’s a bit of a difference. And though this is awful, at least… well, there’s always a chance she won’t be so far gone forever.

“Here I thought my summer was shite,” he says after a moment, and then hands over the flask Rumpy had sent them. Arthur obviously needs that more than he does. Eames doesn’t really have any idea what other sort of comfort he should give, if any is even wanted. But then, if Arthur didn’t want him to know… he wouldn’t have told him just now.

So that’s something. Eames just wishes… he wishes there was something he could do. But there very much is not. Beyond being a sixteen year old boy, he’s got no skill with the sorts of magic that could help her, and even if he did, she’s a muggle. He doesn’t know anything about muggles but what Arthur’s told him, really. He hasn’t even dared take Muggle Studies. “If she knew you before… well… there’s hope she will again, isn’t there? You never really know, with that sort of thing. I don’t imagine your mum would really want to have left you behind.”

"I don't think she has a choice," Arthur says after a brief pause, glancing over. "But thanks. I mean... for saying that." It sounds more believable, at least, coming from Eames than it does coming from one of the myriad social workers he's had over the years.

He takes another swig from the flask, but there hadn't been a great deal inside to begin with, and now there's not much left. He hands it over to Eames with a wry sort of smile, setting it in the other boy's hand when Eames doesn't reach up to take it. "I appreciate it, but I learned the hard way that alcohol won't actually help." Actively hinder, rather.

Clearing his throat, he wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, feeling a drop of whiskey dribble down his chin. "I don't want your pity or anything." His voice is pointedly even. "I really don't. I haven't told anyone else, here, and I didn't tell you to get your sympathy."

“Well, good, since you don’t have it,” Eames says, glancing over at him and then back down at the flask, wondering if he should be glad that Arthur had turned down his attempt at comfort, or worried that that was all he could think to do. “I imagine if you’d been looking for pity, you’d have told someone else. I reserve my pity for kittens and the opponents of the Slytherin Quidditch team.”

True enough, that; Eames is not given to excessive amounts of pity or sympathy. And when he is, he doesn’t dare show it, not in ways most people would. He’s much more subtle about that sort of thing. And as for Arthur… well, Eames doubts he could ever pity Arthur. Arthur is much too strong a person for pity to be appropriate, has been since they were eleven.

He glances over at Arthur again, trying to keep from frowning. He doesn’t know how to explain _what_ it is he’s feeling, not pity or sympathy, but mostly helpless. It’s about how he feels every time someone goes off calling Arthur names or harassing him because his parents are muggles, only so much worse, because this actually matters, his mum is someone who really matters, not like Royce or that lot. “I wish I could help, though. Not really within my area of expertise, unless you want to smuggle her away from the muggle doctors, but I dunno how that would improve the situation.”

"No, I think I'd be placed in Her Majesty's Young Offenders institution for that one," Arthur says, unable to keep from smiling at the idea. Eames looks confused, and Arthur actually laughs quietly. "Muggle prison for underage criminals. No dementors, and it's not on a godforsaken rock in the middle of the North Sea- unless you count the fact that it is in England- but not very pleasant, nonetheless." Although it would be much easier to break out...

He shifts a bit, shuffling his arse sideways until he's sitting closer to Eames, and stares out over the lake, finally realizing that there's something he should have asked minutes ago. "Why was your summer so bad?"

He clears his throat. "I mean, mine sucked, yeah, but... just because things happened with my mum doesn't mean yours wasn't just as bad. It's not really fair to compare things." And from what he does know about Eames' home life (gleaned from Yusuf, not from his brother, because Alexander was always as close-mouthed about his own family as are nearly all purebloods, but Yusuf has no problem ranting about Eames'), it isn't wonderful. Even the day they'd met in Diagon Alley, Arthur hadn't liked Mr. Eames. Then again, it's been a while since then. His memory of the rather pompous wizard could be fuzzier than he realizes.

Suddenly regretting having said anything, Eames nevertheless is glad for a subject change. He doesn’t really care for an upset Arthur. Not at all. But at the same time… well, it’s… it’s nice that Arthur told him, that he would tell Eames of all people that sort of thing. It’s just that Eames can’t _do_ anything to help… can’t even really comfort him properly, because he just doesn’t know how. Plus, they’ve run out of alcohol.

Worse, Eames doesn’t really know how to relay his own fairly awful summer to Arthur, doesn’t even know if he _wants_ to. In some ways, Arthur is the _last_ person he wants to tell about the way things are when he’s not at Hogwarts. It’s one thing, for Arthur to know that he’s not just the carefree, troublemaking little shite he often presents himself as. It’s quite another for him to have Eames’ troubles to worry over on top of his own.

“Ah,” he starts slowly, finishing what’s left in the flask before replacing it in the bottom of the basket. He doesn’t look over at Arthur, but then Eames hardly ever looks at people when he’s talking to them. “My brother moved out. That’s it, really. It’s just he was the only one worth going home to.”

Arthur looks over; he doesn't know how to be sympathetic to that, since he's never really had anyone to go home to, and he doesn't think Eames would want that, anyway. Honesty would be better. "I was always envious of you," he says after a moment. "With your parents, and a place to go, and your brother." Especially his brother. "I always wondered what it would be like, to have that."

Most people here have that, he knows. Even the ones that don't have parents are fostered by relatives, or by another family- there's more of that since the war, he's told, than there had been in a long time. But to have one home and one set of people to return to, that's something he hasn't had since he was a little kid. "I can tell you, though, you'll never really appreciate being able to expect a meal three times a day until you have to eat expired Pop-Tarts for a month." Pause. "They're pastries, with jelly filling. Muggles eat them for breakfast."

Although Eames _really_ doesn’t like the idea of Arthur having to eat the same thing over and over for a month, he has no idea what a “Pop-Tart” is, and is morbidly fascinated despite himself. Arthur is, maybe not surprisingly, really his only source of accurate information regarding the muggle world and culture. He feels like he’s missing some of the impact of what Arthur had just told him by not quite understanding.

More, he can hardly believe the rest of it. “Envious of me?” he repeats, turning to look at Arthur despite himself. He manages to control his tone- barely- but it’s quite clear that he can hardly believe that anyone should be envious of him. Yes, he has always had a roof over his head, and his family is more than well off by far, but… well, he supposes from the outside, it does look like a nice sort of life.

He doesn’t explain any of this to Arthur, though. He’d rather not go into detail regarding his family… for some reason, it just seems like it would be… wrong, to drag Arthur into that. Arthur is better than all of that. It’s almost as though Eames wants to keep him separate so that _Arthur_ isn’t sullied by it all. So he doesn’t say that it would be more sensible to envy Yusuf, or Mal, or hell, maybe even Ariadne, he doesn’t know. Anyway, after hearing about Arthur’s summer, Eames doesn’t think he really has room to complain. So he focuses on the good part. “Well, yeah. Don’t tell him, but I’m quite fond of my brother.” Understatement, that, and everyone knows it, but Eames does have his little brother pride. “Don’t suppose you can get owls when you live with muggles, can you? Or I’d send you some real pastries over the summer. Mitzi- one of our house elves- she taught me a bit of baking this summer past. I’m not awful. But I’d probably send you hers and pretend I’d done it anyway.”

"I can get owls," Arthur admits. "As long as they don't fly into the kitchen right in front of my foster parents. Generally whoever I'm living with just chalks it up to something they imagined, or another way I'm weird." And considering the trouble a lot of foster kids get into, having a few extra owls flying around is generally considered by said foster parents to be a very minor issue. It's not as if he'll be able to do magic until halfway through the next summer, anyway.

He smiles a bit shyly at Eames. "Food would be awesome. From you or from Mitzi. I mean, I don't want charity so I'll make you stuff when I have a kitchen to do it in, though." There's his pride to consider, after all. There's a pause; he looks like he's trying to decide whether or not to say the next bit, but in the end he does. "You could come visit me, too. You'll be of age."

That might be pushing a bit far, this first afternoon. They'd only just... well. But... if he'd ever want anyone to come visit him, it would be Eames. And he could make it so he could show the other boy so many new muggle things that it would completely eclipse whatever living situation he'll have, by then.

Obviously he hasn’t pushed anything, because Eames brightens a little at that. He doesn’t like the way Arthur talks about the muggle places he goes back to summers, but he doesn’t care- he’d like to see him. Whether Arthur is envious of his home life or not, Eames does his best to stay out as often as possible, and going to visit Arthur would be even better than just harassing Yusuf all the time, or… well, following his brother about like a tagalong.

Plus, Arthur lives with _muggles_. Eames doesn’t know anything about muggles. It would be more of an adventure than going to another country.

Of course, he doesn’t want to look _too_ excited, so Eames dampens his excitement a little before responding. “I’d like that… I mean, that would be nice,” he says after a moment, failing a bit at being cool about it. He carries on after turning a bit red, his hair following suit again (he hardly seems to notice). “Anyway, it’s not charity if you’re trying my stuff. No one else will eat it when they can have Mitzi’s instead so I have no one to practice on but myself.” Granted, he eats a _lot_ , but still.

"Well, if you put it that way, you won't get any arguments from me," Arthur says dryly, chucking another pebble into the water and not even trying to skim it. He just throws it as hard and as far as he can; it sails a fair distance before plopping down into the water, which isn't surprising, considering his position as Chaser on his own House's team for the past two years.

Then he snorts, reverting back to their previous conversation- before the awkward home and family discussions- and eyes the other boy sidelong. "And anyway, you pity the _Slytherin_ team's opponents? Pity those who play against Gryffindor. Including you, yourself." It is most definitely a challenge; the glint in his eye is unmistakable.

Now it's Eames' turn to look amused. He actually rolls his eyes, quite above this argument. Regardless of the results of the last game Slytherin and Gryffindor had played- he absolutely believes that they have the cup this year. It's just a matter of time. And as for Gryffindor, well, pity is the right word, but he's not feeling it for their opponents.

"You wish," he says, amused, and thinking that Arthur ought to consider himself lucky, because anyone else who'd said that might have ended up pushed into the lake. "To be fair, I generally pity Hufflepuff no matter _who_ they're playing. But unless you mean I ought to pity the Slytherin team- self included- because they're not being taxed enough that they reach the full extent of their capabilities, then you're sorely mistaken."

"Uh huh," Arthur says dryly. "That's exactly what I meant." It seems like a good time to drop the subject, and he does, as they return to the food, eating quite companionably. Much more companionably than he'd expected, all things considered.

It's a quiet sort of afternoon, and by the time they have to go in for dinner, the rest of the student body is returning, so they enter the castle separately. But it seems like a small price to pay in exchange for the afternoon itself, easily the most relaxing time Arthur has spent in a very long time.

Dinner that night goes better than one would expect; Eames spends a few minutes with the lot of them where they sit at the Ravenclaw table (neutral territory), but eventually wanders off to sit with Amy and a couple of Slytherin blokes. This is normal, which he figures is the best way to be. Anyway, they can’t suddenly be best friends in public, as they haven’t been talking for a year now. It would make people suspicious.

But over time, they slowly interact a bit more with one another; Eames, for one, is doing his best to keep Yusuf from noticing anything, since he’s most likely to. Eventually, maybe. But right now, he’s not entirely sure how Arthur would feel about that, and he doesn’t want to push things.

Well. He _does_. That’s a hard instinct to suppress, but he does his best. Of course, harassing Arthur in class doesn’t count. That is Eames’ favorite pastime, finally renewed, and he takes to it with equally renewed vigor, seemingly back to normal, if that and the fact that he spends three days with green and silver hair is any indication.

Of course, not on the weekends- Hogsmeade especially- it’s very difficult to find a time and place free of prying eyes to be _alone_ with Arthur. And that is slowly becoming Eames’ top priority. Which is why eventually he breaks down and sends one of the school owls (untraceable, unlike his stupid fuck thing) to Arthur, with a note asking him to meet him in the closet across the hall from the kitchens during dinner. Provided no one is there. It’s only a temporary hiding spot, but it’ll do- Eames has something he really ought to show Arthur. It’ll make life much easier.

Curiosity outweighing a rather worried sort of suspicion, Arthur appears in the corridor outside the kitchens at the appointed time, checking his watch to make sure. But sure enough, the giant clock tolls seven in the evening, and he can hear the buzz of several hundred voices just upstairs.

And just as he reaches the closet, the door pops open and Eames' head peeks out. Arthur arches a brow at him, trying to stifle a smile. "I got your note."

He's dragged inside, to a small space lit only by _Lumos_ , from Eames' wand. "Merlin, you're dramatic. What do you have to show me?"

He gets, for this comment, a bit of a glare, but more than anything, Eames takes that as a challenge. If Arthur thinks _that’s_ dramatic, he’s obviously been much too soft on the other boy. Well, he can fix that, but not all at once. He also doesn’t want to scare Arthur off. Not that he thinks Arthur is easily frightened, just… well. Right. Moving on.

“This is not _dramatic_ ,” he says, keeping his voice low. Okay, so maybe not moving on just yet. “This is _caution._ ”

The look Arthur gives him is somewhere between dry and suspicious; Eames’ returning grin is probably not very helpful. “I’ve given it much thought and I’ve decided there is something you ought to see. Normally, I would wait until my final year and pass it on to a select minion or two, but these are extenuating circumstances, so I’ve determined that you should be allowed to see it as well, despite your general and unfortunate law-abiding tendencies. Great display of trust, this.” This is an awful lot of set up for whatever it is he wants to show Arthur, and Arthur’s expression is only getting more and more worried. Eames trusts, however, that curiosity will win out. As it already did once, in getting Arthur here in the first place. “ _But_ , you absolutely must promise never to speak of it to anyone. Ever.” He pauses, for dramatic effect. “ _Ever._ I mean it. For real. I’ll know.”

Arthur stares at him in the dim light, his expression dubious. The sharp bones of Eames' face are highlighted by the one tiny light, and he looks almost inhuman. Arthur has always cursed his own fine bones, but Eames really does look about as close to perfect as it's possible to be.

It's really unfair.

At the moment, though, Arthur is more interested in what the hell has inspired all this 'caution' (read: paranoia). "All right, okay, _caution._ What are you being so _cautious_ about, Mata Hari?" He snickers, but Eames just blinks at him in confusion, and he sighs. "Muggle spy in the first World War- okay, just never mind, what is it?"

There is a pause as Eames considers asking how muggles could possibly have had a _world_ war and wizards don’t even hear about it (and the first implies more than one), but decides he doesn’t really want to know. Right now, at least. Right now, there are more important things to be thinking about.

So he lets it go, reaching into his robes to pull out… a piece of parchment. Which looks rather old, but well-cared for. Eames, for his part, seems to be treating it rather carefully, almost reverentially. Which… really seems to make no sense, as well-cared for it might be, but as he opens it… it’s just… a piece of parchment. A _blank_ piece of parchment, which Eames holds up with a grin. “This,” he says, smiling despite the curious look on Arthur’s face turning more suspicious.

Eames supposes that makes sense. He could very well be harassing Arthur. But he isn’t. And so, even as Arthur is giving him that _look,_ about to say something scathing or maybe just leave, Eames holds the parchment up almost stubbornly and, still grinning, mutters at it, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

There is a long pause, and then Arthur stares in shock as the entirety of Hogwarts spreads out before him. But then... then he squints closer, glancing up at Eames and then reaching into his pocket to pull out his glasses slipping them on. Eames has never seen them before, but trying to read minuscule writing in the near-darkness like this makes them necessary.

"Oh my God," he whispers, wizarding profanity abandoned in the face of such a shock. He usually has to think about it before swearing Merlin's name; this, he doesn't. "Holy fuck. This is _awesome_."

They're there, in the closet, right across from the kitchens. Little footprints, with their names next to them. "There's Dumbledore! And Flitwick! And _us_ , god, I completely understand how you do it, now!" It all makes _sense_.

Even though he’s grinning, Eames is still slightly insulted by that. As though the map is the only thing a person needs to run all of the rackets and cause all of the mischief Eames does. Of course not. “Hey,” he says, eyes narrowed a bit. “This is just one of many tools. The map can’t turn into an old bloke and convince an innkeeper that he needs twenty bottles of firewhiskey.”

So there. But Eames can’t stay indignant for very long, because for one thing, Arthur is obviously thrilled and excited by the map (obviously, Eames knew he would be), and for another, he has _glasses_. Eames falls in love with the glasses a bit immediately. He spends a moment staring in the dim light before he catches himself. He’s really got to stop staring at Arthur at inappropriate moments. Thank Merlin for robes, that’s all he has to say, or else he’d be caught out by now. “Didn’t know you had glasses. I like them,” he says before he can stop himself.

Then, trying not to sound like an idiotic, lovesick puppy, he carries on. “Right. Remember. You can’t tell a _soul_ , Arthur. This is top secret. Proprietary information. Businesses rest upon this secret. _Lucrative_ businesses. Also prime pranks. And blackmail. Lots of blackmail.”

Arthur flushes, embarrassed by the compliment to his eyewear- he'd been entirely prepared to be harassed and teased, but this... this is not what he'd predicted Eames would say. His cheeks are immediately scarlet, and he's abruptly thankful for the darkness, glasses or not.

"Why would I risk your wrath?" he points out logically. "That would only piss you off, and then I wouldn't get any more firewhiskey. Besides, I don't know where you get this idea that I'm a goody two-shoes."

Now he pauses, still unable to do more than glance up at Eames, as he's still entirely enamored of this map. "I'm tempted to ask you to cut me in."

Eames can still see a bit of red on Arthur’s cheeks, but keeps the harassment to himself for now. Arthur’s distracted, understandably. Eames can’t blame him. In fact, this was the reaction he was going for. He’s glad not to be disappointed. And as for cutting him in, well… no one would expect it, actually, him having Arthur on his side. But the slightly frightening thought is that if Arthur actually asked to be cut in, he’d absolutely agree, whether it was sensible or not. An excuse for something to do with Arthur, and a chance to show off? Yeah. No choice.

He does snort a bit. “Whether or not you disregard the rules at times has no bearing on your status as goody two-shoes,” he informs Arthur, with the air of someone who has thought this over in great detail over the years. “It’s about your personal set of rules, not the actual rules. You’ve got them, and worse, they’re quite strict. Whereas I have a set of personal suggestions. Minor suggestions.” Arthur might have noticed. That, and Eames has very little to no shame, depending on the situation. Almost everything depends upon the situation for Eames. Things tend not to be writ in stone for him.

“It’s not your fault though, it’s a Gryffindor thing,” he says with mock reassurance, patting Arthur on the shoulder. “You can’t help it.”

Arthur shoves Eames' arm away grumpily, making a face when the other boy pouts. "Shut up, I could do what you do. It has nothing to do with Gryffindor." He gestures to the names at the top of the map. "How do you know _they_ weren't in Gryffindor? Mr. Moony, Mr. Wormtail, Mr. Padfoot, and Mr. Prongs. They must have been here at Hogwarts."

Eames looks rather dubious, and his expression is more than a tad patronizing. Arthur nearly snarls. "They _could have been Gryffindors._ And I want in."

Immediately, Eames grins, as though he’d been working the conversation towards and hoping for that very outcome. Disregarding the silly idea that those talented blokes might have been in Gryffindor, as well as the fact that Arthur had totally missed his point in favor of being annoyed, he looks rather thrilled. He’s not sure Arthur could do _exactly_ what he does, but if he had the exact same skillset, he wouldn’t be helpful, he’d be competition.

“Well, since you asked,” he says cheerfully, eyeing the map- and their hiding place on it- with a bit of paranoia. No need to be caught whilst showing Arthur, after all. But they seem to be safe, for now. “How do you feel about cats? It’s just we need another bloke for this plan, as I have to be the one on the sabotaged stairway while it’s stuck since Yusuf is a baby and really quite poor at selling the story in supposedly life-threatening situations. Also, unrelated, this shows a lot of the best and unused snogging locations. In case you were ever wondering.”

"I like cats," Arthur says slowly. "Unless you're referring to Mrs. Norris, the devil's spawn. But she doesn't like anyone but Filch and McGonagall." McGonagall, for obvious reasons. He's not sure why anyone at all likes Filch. This, however, is not the part of the conversation Arthur is currently concentrating on. He's more concerned with the last bit of information Eames had seen fit to impart.

Leaning over, he peers at the map, spotting them in their closet again. No one nearby at all. "You mean like the one we're in?" he points out, stifling a smirk of his own and then leaning over. He kisses Eames lightly, once, and then runs his tongue over the other boy's lower lip, biting down.

(He'd been absolutely right about Eames' mouth, each time he'd dreamt about it. They might not have done anything more than snogging yet, but he'd been _completely_ right. Damn.)

Eames makes a startled but pleased noise, all thoughts of his snappy retort dying with Arthur kissing him. He forgets all about the map, as well; his priorities are quite in order, thank you. And Arthur is very much on top. Not that Eames would ever admit such a thing _to_ Arthur, true or not.

He _is_ right about this being a good snogging spot, though, Eames thinks as he snakes an arm around Arthur’s middle, bravely pulling him a bit closer. Eames is not given to being shy in this sort of situation- rather the opposite, really- but he’s been very careful, with Arthur, for fear of doing something wrong, scaring him off in one way or another, or just being an idiot in general.

This would all be much easier if he wasn’t terrified of looking like a moron in front of Arthur. Or if Eames hadn’t spent years pining after him.

Of course that doesn’t stop him from putting an end to that sort of teasing by kissing Arthur properly. He might not actually be going to school in France, but there are some things French that Eames is pretty bloody fond of.

It's a good while later before they come up for air, gasping; Arthur opens his eyes to find himself pushed back against the heavy old shelves, Eames practically surrounding him. Easier that way than vice versa, as Eames is significantly broader than Arthur is, and Arthur blinks owlishly over at the other boy, his eyes hazy and his glasses a bit askew.

"Fuck," he says hoarsely, grinning a bit. He's fairly sure the expression is a less than intelligent one, all things considered, but he doesn't think Eames will notice or much care, at the moment, since Eames looks just as dazed as Arthur feels.

Speaking of feeling... Their upper halves are against one another, and he can feel the heat of Eames' skin, even through the layers of robes, sweater, uniform shirt, and undershirt beneath that. Even through all of those, Eames feels like he's burning up against him. Their lower halves, though, are not touching, and Arthur flushes as it finally registers, through the blind haze of lust, exactly how turned on he himself is.

And exactly how overheated. Not moving out of the circle of Eames' arms, he shrugs out of his robe, swearing when it gets stuck on his shoulders, and then reaches up to loosen his tie and to unbutton his cardigan. "'S bloody hot in here." And yes, the pun had been intentional. His eyes tick up to meet Eames' again and don't leave the other boy's gaze, even as he finishes unbuttoning the sweater and pulls the tie from his neck. "Aren't you hot?"

Eames stares back up at Arthur, unable to look away even though more than anything, he wants to watch Arthur’s fingers unbuttoning his sweater and removing his tie. He’s made suddenly very, very aware of the fact that without those layers, there’s only a shirt and undershirt beneath, and beneath that… just Arthur. Which would probably by why his mouth goes absolutely dry.

For a long moment, no words are coming, which marks maybe the second time in their entire acquaintance that Eames hasn’t had a damn thing to say. It’s just that words are very difficult to understand right now, let alone speak. Eames can’t remember a single time in his life when he’s been so dazed.

But then he shakes himself out of it, realizing that he’s been doing nothing but staring, and swallows before he nods. Hot? Yes, yes you could say that.

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely, realizing both that he’s flushing and that he might have just forgotten to breathe for a minute, there. His heart is going much faster than is healthy as he pulls his own robe off, going after the green and silver tie almost viciously when it proves to be much more difficult to get off than usual.

Arthur's mouth has gone dry, and his own eyes move downward to watch Eames' fingers, tangled in the silk and yanking at it. He's about to offer to help (completely selflessly, of course, with no ulterior motive), but he's not sure he has the balls, and just at that moment, Eames rips the tie over his head.

It's followed almost immediately by his sweater, and then there they stand, both of them, in no more than their shirts and trousers. And that might seem like a lot, all things considered, but for boys who go to school in Scotland and hence wear a ridiculous number of layers... well. This is pretty much the equivalent of a striptease, at least for Arthur. He can't speak for Eames, but he can see the look on Eames' face in the dim light, and he can make an educated guess.

He reaches over, and doesn't have to reach far, grabbing the lapels of Eames' collar and pulling him slowly closer. They weren't far apart to begin with, but when he stops tugging, their chests are nearly touching again; they're right at eye level, the same height again now that they've both had a growth spurt, and he can't look away from Eames' eyes. It's a little unusual, not that he's experienced enough snogging to be able to call anything normal or unusual, but he keeps his eyes on Eames' when he leans forward and kisses him again.

This doesn't last; his eyes close immediately, without his say-so, but he's not paying attention to that much at all, by this point, as Eames is kissing him back. None of this chaste business, this time; they go right back to full-on snogging, as though it's their natural state, immediately pressed together once again.

The only difference is when, a moment or two into it, Arthur lifts his hips from where he'd been resting his arse against one of the lower shelves, and moves them against Eames. There's no doubt that Eames can feel how hard he is, now, but it sends a shiver up and down his spine when he feels what is unmistakeably Eames, just as turned on as he is. He would swear, and viciously, but he's far too busy to remove his mouth from Eames'.

Eames groans, and it would be embarrassingly loud if the sound wasn’t muffled by the fact that he does it into Arthur’s mouth. He wasn’t quite prepared for that, since although they’ve been finding time to snog since that first (well, second) kiss in the bathroom, they haven’t quite managed any of this until just now. Of course he’s had all sorts of _dreams_ about this, but the reality is about a million times better.

If he could think at all, Eames would be totally worried that he’s going to make a fool of himself. But right now all he can think about is Arthur, who is very nearly undressed as such things go when one wears eighteen layers all the time. The very thought- and the half- formed idea that he could try, maybe, to at least reach under part of Arthur’s shirt- sends a shiver through Eames that becomes another muffled moan.

And so Eames can’t help it when he tries to get closer, nearly crushing Arthur back against the shelves behind him even as his hips move forward of their own volition, moving against Arthur as much as he can and without any discernible rhythm. They might still have pants and trousers on, both of them, but he can _feel_ Arthur, and right now it seems like they might as well be totally naked.

Groaning right back into Eames' mouth, Arthur tries to move along with him; he doesn't do it very well, but his brain is rapidly devolving to a much lower level, and there isn't much going on there aside from _More more that yes MORE._ His hand fists itself in Eames' shirt near his collar, and the other goes down to near the other boy's stomach... and drops down, all of its own volition, to Eames' waistband, grabbing on tight and pushing back against the other boy.

He has no leverage, not pressed back against the shelves as he is, but it doesn't matter, he doesn't want Eames off of him. It does occur to him that he's closer, this way, to Eames than he ever has been to anyone before, but that thought is in some distant part of his mind, one that isn't entirely overcome by the physical at the moment.

He wants more, faster, ruts harder against Eames, who makes another one of those noises that are driving Arthur mad and shoves him harder back against the shelves. Arthur shifts against him, moving as much and as fast as he can and whining in a more high-pitched tone than he would ever admit to. His breath comes harder and shallower, and suddenly his brain short-circuits, and he comes, slumping forward against Eames with a shaky moan.

The sound Arthur makes ends it, and Eames follows a moment later, fingers reaching for something to hold on to and ending up curled in Arthur’s shirt. He ends up more leaning on Arthur than standing of his own power. This works out, somehow, maybe them leaning on each other is just keeping them standing, Eames doesn’t know, because his brain has shut off entirely. It isn’t until a minute or two later that he even starts to catch his breath, or indeed even to try to do so.

It occurs to him, much too late, that they probably should have realized that this would end in ruining their trousers, but Eames can’t find it in himself to care at the moment, as he’s half buried his head in Arthur’s shoulder while he pants, trying to keep from passing out or falling over. Or from bursting into hysterical giggles, because… that… that just happened. With _Arthur._

“Hell,” he finally manages, voice hoarse and mostly muffled by Arthur’s shoulder. He really wishes he had something more witty or even coherent to say, but he doesn’t.

"Yeah," Arthur wheezes. He manages to lever himself upward, but then ends up leaning back against the shelves, with Eames' weight against him again. It's probably a good thing that he's pinned between the two, because his legs feel like jelly, now that he notices again that he's standing- he'd forgotten pretty much everything but his cock and his tongue, and Eames' cock and Eames' tongue, for a moment there. Or a few minutes. Whatever.

Now that he's regaining brain function, however, something else does occur to him. "We should maybe have Silenced the door." He can't hear anyone outside in the corridor, but-

Actually, oh _fuck_ , he _can_ hear someone.

Heels are clicking down the hall towards them, and he scrambles to grab the map from where it had fallen to the floor, along with his wand, and then his eyes widen, horrified, as he sees footprints with Minerva McGonagall's name attached to them approaching the closet where Arthur Kaufman and Vincent Eames are currently located. "Fuck, it's McGonagall!" he barely whispers, but Eames hears him, as it's right into Eames' ear.

“Fuck,” Eames breathes, grabbing the map from Arthur’s hands and whispering a hurried “ _Mischief managed,_ ” without even a thought for how very amusingly true that statement is as the ink fades off of the paper until it’s blank. They both start a mad scramble for their clothes, then, not even bothering to put them on so much as gather them, and then Eames starts looking around the closet for somewhere- anywhere- to hide.

After all, it’s bad enough to be caught hiding out in a closet, but he could deal with that and graciously accept the detention. It’s worse to be caught _snogging_ in a closet, but he could handle _that_ , too, and probably make the best of it. But they’ve been doing much more than snogging, and they _can’t_ be caught together. No doubt about it.

The only thing Eames notices is a space in the back behind a set of shelves, but it’s big enough for one person at most… and probably not him. Without a word, he starts shoving Arthur in that direction, gesturing for him to hide back there with his sweater and cloak, which Eames shoves half-over him, meaning for the dark material to help hide him. And then Eames goes for a nearby trunk. A nearby trunk which, at first glance, is not _nearly_ big enough, not even for a smaller boy their age to fit in, let alone someone with shoulders of Eames’ size.

But, fortunately, the size of Eames’ shoulders can change. Hiding in places that ought to be too small for him is a skill Eames has acquired over the years, having had ample opportunity to practice. He can only hope that if McGonagall comes in here, she doesn’t want whatever happens to be in the trunk.

Arthur's foot scrapes across the stones as he slides into the small space, and he winces, mouthing a curse of the non-magical variety. Perfect, when their teacher has a cat's hearing... Just outside the door, McGonagall's heels pause with a _click_ , and then the closet door opens.

She peers inside, and Arthur doesn't move, can barely breathe, hidden as he is. He doesn't dare turn his head to see if Eames is also hidden; he just has to hope that the other boy is.

There's a long pause, during which Arthur waits, _waits_ for the revealing charm, but to his shock, it doesn't come. She simply shuts the door, and they hear her heels continue on down the hallway.

"Bloody hell," Arthur whispers once the heels have turned the corner in the corridor. When he peers over at Eames, for a second he can't see the other boy. And then he squints. "Are you _camouflaged_? That is _wicked_."

Eames’ grin appears almost out of nowhere; his teeth obviously aren’t camouflaged. A moment later, after a series of popping sounds, he’s his normal height and width once more, and the strange colours have returned to normal. Himself right and proper once more, Eames’ grin widens as he looks at Arthur in the dim light. He knows it’s wicked. It’s one thing to know it, though, and quite another to have impressed Arthur, which makes him almost giddy. It’s quite silly, really, but Eames has never wanted to impress someone more.

He actually has to fight not to turn red; he wins that battle, although his hair goes a bit blue without his meaning for it to, and he doesn’t seem to have noticed that his eyes are greener than they ought to be. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s handy now and then.”

That’s about when he fully recalls what they’d done just before that scare, as he’s tucking the map in his pocket and fiddling with his hopelessly-knotted tie. Then he eyes Arthur again, and has to fight to keep his grin from turning silly. “Maybe next time… a _Silencio_ would probably be a good idea, yeah.” Definitely not a way to check that there will be a next time, therefore indicating that this time was good.

Arthur, for his part, is now also bright red, but still grinning. "Yeah, well... we just weren't exactly paying attention to how much noise we were making, is all." If possible, he flushes even more. "Or I wasn't. So… you know. Next time."

He grabs Eames' tie from him and has it straightened in a few seconds, handing it back before attacking his own. But after that, there's no excuse for keeping them there, really (not beyond two very quiet _Tergeo_ 's, aimed at their trousers, anyway, and they do make sure to do that, for obvious reasons), and so Arthur straightens his robes, putting his wand away and gesturing for Eames to precede him out of the closet.

"So about my cut," he says as Eames pushes the door open.

“I’ll have to get back to you,” Eames says, obviously evading, but he’s grinning as he says it. Of all the people in this world, he is least likely to cheat Arthur. And, perhaps sadly, he’s quite sure Arthur knows it.

He’s glancing back at Arthur as he steps into the hallway, and it isn’t until a very familiar voice speaks that Eames realizes they hadn’t re-checked the map once they’d spotted McGonagall coming towards them. “Well, I imagine you’ll have plenty of time to consider your response to Mr. Kaufman in detention, Mr. Eames.”

That stops both Eames and Arthur dead in their tracks; Arthur actually runs into Eames before they manage to steady themselves. And then, after a moment to gather himself (at least she hadn’t caught them snogging, and he’s going to behave as though hiding out in a closet with Arthur is totally normal and no reason to be nervous, just another day, albeit one in which he is less successful than usual in hiding), Eames heaves a dramatic sigh and looks up (well, down, he’s outgrown her by now, but he’d been looking at the floor) at McGonagall. “Well, I nearly made it to Wednesday this week without a detention. That ought to count for something.”

"That is an exceptional accomplishment for you, Mr. Eames," McGonagall says drily, glancing over at Arthur. "Mr. Kaufman, you and Mr. Eames will accompany Hagrid in your detention, tomorrow evening at 8 p.m. I suggest you join your peers in the Great Hall."

They both nod obediently, scampering now that they're dismissed, but Arthur waits until they're well out of earshot before he asks (in a very quiet voice), "Does she just walk about with potential detention punishments in mind, waiting until she catches someone breaking a rule? There's nothing that says we're not allowed to be in a closet..."

“Well, but there is something about plotting in closets,” Eames points out. Obviously McGonagall had heard them discussing Arthur’s “cut”; Eames can only hope that was about all she heard. Then again, McGonagall knows full well most, if not all, of the things Eames has been up to over the years. It’s only a matter of _catching_ him at it.

Eames doesn’t seem too terribly bothered by being given detention, but then, it’s not even slightly abnormal for him. Plus, that could have gone much, _much_ worse. He grins a little, looking at Arthur sidelong before very quietly adding, “There’s also something says a thing or two about snogging in closets.”

"I think it's more snogging _anywhere_ , even if they don't always enforce it," Arthur says in kind, grinning back. They'd done significantly more than snogging, though. Not that he's complaining. Erm. At all.

Actually, he's still in shock that it had happened at all... he'd shagged. More importantly, even beyond the idea of shagging at all, which is mind-blowing in itself, he'd shagged _Eames_. Maybe not actually shagged, but... but he's never done anything like that before, just... snogged someone in the first place, like that, and then they'd... well. They'd done that.

"Well, Mr. Eames," he says after a moment, trying desperately to smother his grin before it widens to ridiculous proportions. Too late, probably. "Might I interest you in dinner?"

Eames' grin cannot quite be smothered, either, so he can't harass Arthur about his. And to be honest, right now, he's not even considering harassing Arthur. His mind is on other things. The same things, he's sure, that Arthur's mind is on, because how could he be thinking about anything but what just happened in the closet? McGonagall breaking things up and giving them detention or not... Eames' day is about a billion times better than it was half an hour ago. And Arthur looks much the same.

Besides, Arthur grinning doesn't look at all ridiculous. Eames has made it a life goal, after all, to wring smiles out of Arthur. "Absolutely," he agrees, not even able to come up with a witty remark, because dinner sounds wonderful if Arthur will be there.  



End file.
